


Grumpy Old Spies - The Spyware Affair

by Batagur



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batagur/pseuds/Batagur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The digital age and UNCLE meet.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Act 1 ~Solo Mission~

Timothy Cooper was slightly pudgy looking for a field operative. He was average height; his weight was just within the acceptable range. He wasn't what one would imagine to be an international spy. He looked more like a guy who sat in a cubical all day writing computer code. He wasn't on any girl's "A-list" when it came to dating. His social calendar had maybe two event penciled in for the whole year; both of them were family get-togethers. 

Did his family in New Jersey know what he did? No, not completely. They knew he worked for the UN and in association with InterPol. They knew nothing about his work for the UNCLE, which was just as well. They knew what the UNCLE was, and Timothy could imagine the non-stop fretting his mother would do. He could also imagine how his little sister could add his association with a supposedly glamorous international spy agency to the list of things to make fun of him. He had long since let go of any hope that she would ever cease to call him 'chuckle-head.'

Despite or perhaps because of his seemingly average-Joe appearance, Timothy Cooper was an excellent field operative with five years of experience under his belt. He spoke seven languages, all of them European and Eastern European. He could think on his feet with amazing adeptness. He was also very able to sit in a cubical and write computer code. He had graduated from MIT with a master's degree in Computer Science and systems engineering. He had also spent four years in the US Army intelligence.

But, to his bosses, Timothy Cooper's greatest achievement was his partnership with Duncan Foxx. Foxx, was not universally well like. He had this annoying habit of lumping most people under the term 'the great beast leviathan' and dismissing them from there. It took Cooper months before Foxx finally seemed to take him into his perception as an entity separate from the unwashed masses. Cooper knew that Foxx was just a guy, like any other guy. He was also just a very private person. The anti-social behavior was mainly due to a somewhat retiring nature coupled with a low-tolerance for insipid people. 

Was it an accomplishment to work with a guy who had been unofficially dubbed 'the Ice Prince Jr?' Cooper wasn't sure. He knew that it wasn't a picnic and any other agent would have asked for extra pay. Cooper wasn't any other agent. 

Today the Ice Prince Jr. was being his normal anti social self, giving Stacy from translation very little notice despite the fact that she was obviously throwing herself at him Cooper knew his partner all too well. It wasn't that Foxx was uninterested, it was just that for, as perceptive as he was at all other things, he was a dense as a brick in this area. Personal relationships were not a big priority in his life so he tended to ignore most overtures. The affects were often very frustrating to practically all females. Who wants to put their best subtle hints forward only to feel like they are being turn down in favor of paying bills, looking into the final solution of Fermat's Last Theorem, and watching a fishing show?

Cooper couldn't watch. It wasn't in his nature to stare at train wrecks. He was pointedly ignoring the scene when Madeleine Bishop, CEA of Section Two rounded the corner of his cubical and stared down at them. 

"Stacy?" She looked over the startled translator with her normal, effectual aplomb. "Could you excuse us?"

Stacy mumbled some apology and retreated with all due haste. Timothy wondered what they had done now to earn Madeleine's displeasure. Before he could even being to speculate, she leaned across the tandem desk with an intense brown-eyed gaze.

"Coop, the Old Man wants to see you."

He wanted to reply but he only just realized that his mouth had dropped open as he sat in stunned silence. He looked over at Foxx, but the man was only watching the scene with a calm, thoughtful gaze. 

"Today, Coop." Madeleine had a way of purring that could make a man's blood run cold. Timothy only flinched slightly, but then cleared his throat.

"Uh… okay." He straightened up the open file on his desk and prepared to go to the big office. Madeleine waited for him, her arms crossed on her chest, her impatient stare burning a hole in him.

Timothy looked over at Foxx as he rose. Foxx, in turn, looked up at Madeleine.

"Just Coop," she replied without even turning her head to acknowledge Foxx's unspoken question. Timothy hesitated. He was rarely summoned to the Big Office alone. 

"You two *are not* joined at the hip," Madeleine growled softly. Timothy shrugged at his partner but departed with the CEA, heading up the wide aisle of the field agents' cubical space to the elevator that would take him to the floor above, which held the administrative offices. Madeleine marched him past her own door heading straight back to the large corner office reserved for Number One, Section One. They entered the outer office. With a nod to the administrative assistant, she opened the right door of the double-door office and walked in unannounced. Timothy stayed at least two paces behind, as he thought was suitable for a humble field operative to his superior. 

The Office suite was long with no windows; there was a bank of LCD monitors to one side, set up for communications and information transfer. At the moment, they were each mutely monitoring different newscasts from all over the world. There was also an oval conference table before one reached the marble- top desk of Napoleon Solo. Timothy knew, as every agent did, that it took a good ten paces to get from the door to the desk of Number One. In that ten paces, you had just enough time to contemplate why you had been summoned before the Old Man. 

The Old Man was at his desk. Standing to his right, in his usual spot, was the Ice Prince. Timothy was certain that Director Kuryakin had an office and a desk of his own, but, to date, Timothy had never seen it. However, many have been the times that he had seen him standing there at Napoleon Solo's right. Illya Kuryakin was still the Old Man's partner. Madeleine had commented about Foxx and him being joined at the hip. No one was more joined at the hip in a partnership than the Old Man and the Ice Prince. 

Napoleon Solo was not the Old Man's real name, no more that Timothy Cooper was Cooper's real name. They all received pseudonyms to protect family. It was standard procedure in their business; personal identity was on a need-to-know basis. Timothy didn't even know Foxx's real name, although he was sure it was something ridiculously Scottish. He did know that his partner was from Aberdeen, Scotland, and Foxx knew that he was from Trenton, New Jersey. 

The Old Man turned a charming smile on Madeleine. "There you are, my sweets. Thank you for retrieving Mr. Cooper for me. You really didn't have to."

"I wanted to." Madeleine's purr was different for the Old Man. It was less menacing and more sweet-tempered. 

Timothy tried not to fidget like a kid in the principle's office as the CEA and Number One had a short, flirtatious exchange. 

"You are always too good to me, sweet Madeleine. What would this poor old man do without you?"

"I'm sure you would adapt. You have always been renown for adapting."

"Yes, I guess I have that reputation." The Old Man grinned up at his partner. Director Kuryakin rolled his eyes briefly then let his face fall back to its usual stoic mask. 

"But now, sweet Madeleine, I must ask you to leave," the Old Man said with genuine regret in his voice. "You know what to do."

"Yes, sir," Madeleine acknowledge some unspoken order, and after a small nod to Director Kuryakin, she retreated back the way they had came, through the double doors, leaving Timothy alone with the Old Man and the Ice Prince.

"Have a seat, Mr. Cooper."

Timothy took a seat in one of the two high-backed chairs before the Old Man's desk. They were comfortable chairs that looked like they belonged in someone's living room and not in an office, but they suited the Old Man in a way. It was like him to throw you off balance by making you too comfortable. 

They say, back in the day, the Old Man had been a dark-haired sex god. He had been one of those lucky few that could get by on looks and charm alone. Timothy had seen a picture of him when he was only in his thirties. Indeed, the man had had a look about him. It was a look that still lingered, making him an exceptionally handsome older gentleman. But unlike the vivaciously seductive youth of the photo, the Old Man has wisdom and kindness in his eyes. To date, Timothy had never seen the Old Man angry. He reserved that emotion for his partner. 

Perhaps it was because Kuryakin did chilling displeasure so well. The man could send chills down an agent's body with just a look and a few softly spoken words. And it was wise never to talk back or act defiant. Kuryakin did not tolerate fools well. 

The Old Man slid a manila envelope forward on his desk. "Inside you will find the latest intel out of the Austrian Office that suggest there is a major plot underway. The location could be any one of three key UN locations New York, The Hague, or Tunis."

Timothy took the envelope, opening it to slide out three sheets typed in courier font, the usual e-report type used by the European office. 

"Hackers have been trying to break sensitive code that runs security software through our Vienna offices. We have reason to believe these are coordinated attacks and not just random hackers."

"Section Four was able to stop the infiltration?" Timothy said, looking up from the document.

"Yes," Director Kuryakin replied instead of the Old Man. Timothy obediently pulled his attention to the stoic man whose accent was a strange mixture of British with a clipped Slavic undertone. The Director, who had learned British English while in the Russian Navy and later at Oxford, had never been able to totally erase his Russian accent, but he had come fairly close. "They removed several worms from the system and were able, with the help of Section Three, to track the infiltration back here to New York. It’s a small network of computers all located in lower Manhattan. The identities where sufficiently encrypted, but we were able to gain some source data. We have an address."

"We think this is a group of subcontractors. Someone hired these people to hack into the system to gain valuable information. Who hired them, we can only speculate." The Old Man leaned forward, pinning Timothy with a keen gaze. "That is where you come in, Mr. Cooper. I need you to infiltrate this firm of hackers."

Cooper looked down at the top document that had the name Nebulon Business Solutions, a small IT consultant firm that had offices located in lower Manhattan's financial district. It was a relatively new company, barely five years old. The firm specialized in contract IT work for mid-range corporations, and they were growing. Profits were good, and the work force had increased from 20 employees to 35 employees within 10 months time. That was a little unusual for an IT consultant firm in this day and age of global outsourcing.

The sheet beneath the top was a resume for Tim Cooper. He apparently had a MBA and a Masters in computer science. He had worked for Lockheed/Martin for a while on government contract work but left due to downsizing. He had also worked for one of Nebulon's larger competitors, but his no-compete clause of his contract had expired. Under these new credentials, he would be a good candidate for employment. Nebulon was hiring. 

"Mr. Cooper, do you think you can get a name for me?" The Old Man said looking him over with sincere brown eyes. Timothy met his gaze head on. Like most of the other agents of the New York office and beyond, he respected Napoleon Solo and held him with the greatest esteem. He would do anything to please the Old Man. 

Timothy's response was assured. "Yes, sir."  
~*~

"So now what's your angle?"

Timothy wasn't surprised that Duncan had guess that he had received a solo assignment. 

"Hacker… well, programmer actually," Timothy replied. He dropped the folder on his partner's side of the tandem desk. "Gotta get a job with these people. They are trying to hack into UN sensitive data bases."

"Sorta like that Titan Rain project outta China?"

"Sorta," Timothy shrugged. "I guess the Old Man thinks it's THRUSH and not a single government."

"How d'you evaluate this one?"

"Medium," Timothy replied. "All geeks and computer nerds, less danger and more enigmatic business. These guys can cover their asses better than anyone. Cracking their secrets is going to be about out thinking them."

"All the same," Duncan drawled as he turned his attention back to the paperwork before him. "Be careful, ya sorry git. I don't wanna have to get use to a new partner."

"Your affection always astounds me, Duncan."

Foxx looked up sharply at Timothy, a grimace coming to his handsome face. "Pfft! No one said any thing about affection. I'll just be bollixed to train a new one to mind his own business."

Talk about enigmas, Duncan Foxx was a fairly big one in UNCLE. However, Timothy had him figured out to a small extent. He knew how to get around a lot of his defenses when he needed to and that was all that matter. "I'll just take my assignment and get outta your face then." Timothy smirked at his partner. Foxx pointedly ignored him.   
~*~

Infiltration of the firm had gone smoothly and he soon found himself surrounded with the finest programmers the firm had to offer. He was eating his peanut butter sandwiches in the lunchroom with talented young hackers from China, India and Korea. He was talking C, C++, Java, SQL, Delphi, and Perl with people who spoke the codes like second languages. The first few weeks, he let himself be taken along with the flow, feeling out his new work environment and observing the dynamic. Like most new computer-based firms, the work atmosphere was casual. 

He was talking with his team leader, an attractive young woman named Millicent, when she let slip about a special contract that involved cracking UN security. She, of course, made it sound as if the UN's security subcontractors had hired them to test all the firewall they had installed. Perhaps, for all Nebulon Business Solutions knew, that was what they were doing. It certainly seemed that way when he talked with Millicent.

"It's a very sensitive project," Millicent said between sips of a raspberry Snapple. "Our people have been poking around in parts of IntePol that we didn't even know existed. So far we've had no luck, but the current security group wants us to keep going until we breach. They want to see just how much it will take."

"What if you never breach?" Timothy asked.

Millicent shrugged. "We'll breach. There hasn't been a firewall made yet that couldn't eventually be breached. It's all about having the right people and the amount of time." She leaned forward on the break table; her oversized cardigan sleeves flopped over delicate wrists as she cradled her Snapple bottle. "It's a tricky situation. They obviously feel vulnerable. They have made it our job to find the vulnerability."

"From your way of thinking, they'll never not be vulnerable." Timothy said. 

"Perhaps." Millicent shrugged again. "But if you must be vulnerable, isn't it better to know just where you are vulnerable?" 

Timothy nodded, taking a sip of his Diet Coke. "Hey," he said, looking up at Millicent intently, "whose team is on that anyway?"

"Shrivan's," she replied easily.

Shrivan Shaknar, an Indian national, came to the United States to get an education and to find work. But like so many Indian nationals, he discovered that with the advent of outsourcing, he would have been better off staying in India. He could tell you of a dozen or so of his friends in Mumbai who had great paying jobs in IT. The field was booming, and to the Indian standard of living, Shrivan was being under paid for what he was doing. Why did he stay? Timothy gathered that the New York bug had taken hold of the thirty something systems engineer. He was willing to remain an underpaid American working slob than go home to Mumbai and be a wealthy IT professional. 

Directly after lunch, Timothy made it a point to visit with his cubical neighbor, Ning Bojing, who was on Shrivan's team. Ning was a friendly sort, very shy and a little jumpy. Timothy attributed that to his coming from a large Communist totalitarian state. Ning was like some of Chinese nationals in America that Timothy had met in his time. They tended to be cooperative but retiring, as if they feared that the least little offensive conduct could revoke their green card. 

Despite the man's relative shy nature, it was not very hard to strike up conversation with him. Programmers, after all, could always find common ground in compiling errors. From there, they began to talk of their respective projects. Timothy let Ning know that he was aware of the sensitive nature of his project. In turn, Ning divulged to Timothy that there was a written request undersigned by some UN official and that Shrivan had possession of a copy of this document. 

It was simple spy stuff after that. Timothy waited until Shrivan slipped away from his cubical for a smoke break. Shrivan's cubical faced the server room so no one saw him when he ducked behind the taupe colored faux wall. 

Shrivan had a small three-drawer filing cabinet. The top draw was supervisory materials pertaining to team members. The second drawer was what Timothy was looking for-- project related paperwork. The project was labeled 'Enter InterPol.' The letter was on top. It was only a copy, so Timothy could not tell if it actually had been sent on the heavy InterPol letterhead, but the signature at the bottom could still be analyzed. It was signed by security undersecretariat Aito Isu. 

Once Timothy was at back at his desk, he opened his cell phone and pressed the three-digit exchange that opened secure channel D. He then entered the four-digit extension. 

Duncan Foxx answered his call immediately. "Foxx here."

"Duncan, I need to send you a fax."  
~*~

There is this thing about programmers as hackers that Timothy understood. True programmers were too meticulous to make good hackers. Real hackers were rarely true programmers. There style and their art was quick and dirty. They knew just enough of the programming art to be able to find and exploit the chinks in the armor of source code. 

Hiring a competent firm of programmers to do a hack job suggested two things to Timothy: the client wanted a thorough job and the client wanted to trust his contractor. Real hackers couldn't be trusted. This also suggested that the client knew enough about the cyberworld to understand that much, but not enough to know if they had been tricked. They were willing to hire legitimate programmers to avoid dealing with that limitation. To hire legitimate programmers meant being able to produce legitimate documentation. 

Timothy wished he could get his hands on the original copy of the letter from security undersecretariat; he would know that he was looking at a forgery just by touching the paper. Having no real reason to offer Mark, the firm's head of finance and accounts, why he would need to see a document that was part of a locked file for client confidentiality, Timothy knew he was stuck waiting for the run of the fax through the proper channels.

Duncan should have taken the fax to Madeleine, who would have taken it to the proper people in section three. The wording of the document would be examined along with the signature. In the meantime, Madeleine would also advise the Old Man, who would advise the InterPol subcommittee that oversees the UNCLE. They would make their own inquiries into the document's validity. The subcommittee obviously did not authorize it, but that didn't mean that the undersecretariat did not really sign it. 

It was all waiting on that end, but it didn't mean that Timothy have to be passive. He chose not to be. True hackers protect themselves from being hacked. They take extraordinary measures to make sure that any would be hacker would be confounded in a maze of backdoors that lead nowhere. And if a hacker breached, it would not be an unknown event. 

The key to hacking the hacker was vigilance. You had to be very patient. You had to be more patient than the target. You had to watch every move you made to be sure you could create it again if you finally hit a blind alley after being on the right track. You had to be willing to sacrifice a pawn or two in the way of cookies to hit the bigger in-spots. With that in mind, Timothy put his spare time at Nebulon to writing a 'packet sniffer' program to insert into the server. The 'packet sniffer' was designed to eavesdrop on Shrivan's team. 

The same day he received his first hit from the 'packet sniffer' was also the day his cell phone rang that familiar chirp that signified an incoming call on secure channel D. 

"Cooper," he spoke softly into the cell's receiver. There was no real privacy in a cubical office. 

"There y'are, Timmy," Duncan responded with a strange mixture of fake cheerfulness and overt exasperation that was his norm to his partner. Timothy knew it was just Duncan's way of making a joke: a very strange joke, but a joke, nevertheless. 

Timothy shook his head with a sigh. "Do you have any news on the document I faxed?"

"It's not real," Duncan replied succinctly. "The signature was a clever forgery. Madeleine wants you to search all files you can secure pertaining to this."

That made sense. The forgery gave them probable cause. 

"Do I have a time frame?" Timothy looked over his shoulder briefly as he picked up his note pad and pen to write coded instructions down. If any one saw the note, it would look like a shopping list. At the very top he wrote the date.

"Your time frame depends on what you flush out," Duncan replied.

The first item on Timothy's list was liquid plumber. 

"We seriously need to know who ordered the hack," Duncan continued. "There are several big events on the UN agenda that could be compromised if the security is breached through the network."

The next item on Timothy's list was Head and Shoulders shampoo. 

"Next, we need a clear objective. Is it assignation, disruption, extortion… You know, the usual fair. However, I think we'll know that once we know who the culprit is."

Timothy scribbled oatmeal down on his list adding 'multi-flavor packs' after it.

"Lastly, Madeleine wants as much information on the firm's hierarchy as possible to rule out whether or not there are willing accomplices in Nebulon. That forgery could just be for the ground troops, after all."

Timothy wrote the last item on his list: Snapple. 

"I guess you'll have to deal with the Dragon lady alone for another week or two," Timothy said with a small smile. Madeleine and Duncan were worse that oil and water. They were sodium and water. Timothy wondered how his partner was handling it with out his usual buffer.

"Ah," Duncan replied with an easy tone to his rough accent. "The Dragon Lady is out of the office."

"On assignment?"

"Sorta. She accompanied the Old Man to the Netherlands… some big council at The Hague."

"Oh." Timothy had not been aware of the CEA and Number One's trip, not that he was privy to the movements of such top officials in UNCLE. Still, it took him strangely by surprise. 

"They'll be gone for at least two weeks," Duncan continued. "I suspect you'll have us some answers long before that."

"I hope so." Timothy sat back in his chair, leaning a hand onto his computer mouse. He ran the cursor over to check his web mail.

"Well, don't get a flat arse sittin' there writing computer code."

That was Duncan's way of saying take care.

"You, take care too, buddy." Timothy closed the call. 

He sat down his cell phone as he pulled his attention back to his computer monitor. His 'packet sniffer' had been more than a little busy. The small eavesdropping program he had named 'Napoleon' had been very busy indeed. There were seven emails in his inbox from 'Napoleon.' Timothy did not open them. He knew that the firm's webmaster was also the company snoop. It could wait until he was at home. 

He looked down at his grocery list. 

"Looks like I'll need the oatmeal before I can get the liquid plumber." He grimaced slightly.

"Huh?"

He knew that Millicent hadn't been there long and he looked over his shoulder at the woman while proffering the list. 

"Groceries," he explained.

Millicent's petite, pink lips bunched in a frown as she regarded him. Timothy hesitated as if to try and comprehend her confusion. He understood what it was that she had over heard. He just had to play it like someone who knew he had a logical explanation. 

"Gotta have priorities," he mumbled at her. 

Millicent blinked once; then nodded her head so that her bobbed, blond hair bounced pertly about the nape of her neck. The cut was very flattering on her. She was a small, delicate-framed girl who wore oversize clothing. 

Millicent's eyes wandered for a second to his screen. The webmail was minimized and the latest set of codes he was sent to debug was up. The programmer who had made them had felt free about cussing out his boss in the margins of the source code. Timothy didn't mind. It was kind of amusing.

"That's Ted's shit," Millicent sighed. 

"How did he get away with calling Brandy a 'fucking slave-driving cunt?'"

"He didn't," Millicent sighed again. "He was asked to clean out his desk a few months ago. He left shouting obscenities. The building guards have a profile of him in case he wants to go postal on us. The most we've been worried about is that he would try to hack us."

"He hasn't?"

"Not yet," Millicent looked Timothy in the eyes. She seemed sad. Timothy wondered what Ted had meant to her.

"Anyway," she said, straightening her shoulders as if to lift herself from depressing memories. "I actually had a question for you."

Timothy looked at her with what he hoped was an expectantly and eager expression.

"I need some help tonight with a rush clean up," she said. "I can't do it alone, and you seem to work so fast... You wouldn't mind a little over times, would you?"

Timothy nodded. "Ah... sure. I can handle it. Just send me the parameters and…"

"Well, I'll be helping." She giggled slightly. If you could come to my desk whenever you wrap up with that shit, I'll give you your half of the thing. Maybe together, we can get it done in half the time?" She was blushing slightly.

"Sure… Not a problem, " Timothy replied, trying to maintain a professional eagerness. "You don't think that there will be a style conflict?"

Millicent smiled brightly and her blush deepened. "No, not really. I think our styles… mesh… okay."

Timothy nodded, but wondered if the girl was blushing because she understood the double entendre that her words suggested. He wondered if she really didn't mean it to sound that way. 

"Okay," Timothy said.

"Okay" Millicent echoed awkwardly. She then turned on her heels and marched back towards her cubical.

Timothy watched her until she disappeared behind the short taupe wall. Turning back to his own workstation, he picked up a pen and carefully ran a line through "Snapple" on his grocery list.   
~*~

Millicent had been very serious about the overtime, and although he spent most of his time scrolling through some horribly written SQL for Sybase data sets, Timothy did find some time to connect with Millicent on a friendlier level. After about an hour and a half of hair-pulling code, Timothy left his desk and slipped his key card in the door that led out to the break room. He returned from the vending machines triumphant, holding a Mountain Dew and a Peach Snapple, to stand next to Millicent's desk. 

Millicent blinked in surprise as she looked up at him.

"We need a break," Timothy declared. 

"Oh… how thoughtful." She smiled as she accepted the bottled tea. 

Timothy moved one of the rolling chairs from another cubical desk across the narrow aisle way to sit next to Millicent. "Thought you could use one. I know I could."

"I know," she said with an artless shrug. "This thing is a mess. It looks like it was written by cows."

"I would have said three-year-olds, but I guess cows will do," Cooper chuckled. Millicent smiled brightly in return. 

"At least it's relatively short," she said. "I knew that the two of us could do it in a few hours."

"Why the rush?" Timothy asked as he opened his Mountain Dew. 

"Client-ware. Needs to be up by tomorrow morning to assure a low level of disrupted service. I figured the two of us… three hours tops on the code… another fifteen to twenty minutes to test." 

"The easy stuff," Timothy joked. 

Millicent giggled in response. "I guess it could be worse."

"Yeah," Timothy agreed. "We could be trying to hack our way into InterPol."

Millicent giggled lightly. "I don't envy Shrivan," she said. 

"That bad?" 

She leaned a little closer to him and spoke in a softer tone, even though the office was practically empty. "He's getting paranoid."

"How so?" Timothy leaned a little forward as well to show her that he was prepared to take anything she had to say in confidence.

"You should have heard him last Team Leader meeting," she continued. "He was going on about the firewalls he was hitting in InterPol. He said they were 'barbed' and that he wasn't sure if his team was being tracked. Two of his programmers had removed an excessive amount of spyware off their machines, but they were worried that it was already imbedded in the servers."

"Certainly InterPol is going to defend itself," Timothy suggested.

"Sure," Millicent shrugged. "We expected defense, but Shrivan is talking like it is an attack -- a counter offensive. I don't think that is what we signed on for if Shrivan is correct."

"What does Andy say?" Timothy asked. Andy Simmons was the forty-something CEO of the firm. He was an old school COBOL programmer who made his money off of the Y2K scare. He kept Nebulon floating through the dot-com crash by keeping the business small and well grounded in the old languages. Before Timothy was hired, he had to show that he was strongly familiar with languages like C, Python, and COBOL.

"Andy just took it all under advisement… like you said, InterPol is going to defend itself. I think Larry will be going through the server files on Friday to remove anything malicious.

Timothy made a mental note to extract Napoleon before he left that evening. "Well, has anyone been in contact with the UN people to see what's going on?"

Millicent froze for a second with a thoughtful expression. She tilted her head daintily, allowing a loose lock of gold hair to tumble across her face. "You know," she said at last. "I really don't know. I would assume that either Mark or Andy would have been in contact, but they really haven't mentioned…"

"I'm sure Shrivan's team's progress reports have to be going somewhere other than Mark's desk," Timothy added. 

"Yeah," Millicent agreed but looked uncertain for a moment.

"Does it bug you?" Timothy asked. He knew his question would take her by surprise, and he meant for it to do so. Candor often came on the heels of distraction. 

"Huh?" she looked at him round-eyed. 

"You know… the firm doing hacker work," Timothy clarified for her. 

"Oh… no… um… not really," she answered. "We've done this kind of thing before, but usually with smaller businesses. A few financial firms… stuff like that."

"Never dealt with a multi-national bureaucracy." Timothy smiled. Millicent smiled in return.

"No. This is our first time… well, the first time since I've been with Nebulon," she amended. "I suppose, you having background with Lockheed/Martin, you would have a better idea."

"That was mostly government contract work. It's probably a little different."

She nodded. They were silent for a moment, Millicent cradling her Snapple between her palms as Timothy watched the silent play of emotion in her eyes. She was being truthful. Millicent didn't know what was at stake here but she was coming close to figuring out that all was not as it seemed. But Timothy could tell that she was also a team player. She wouldn't rock the boat unless she felt utterly compelled. 

"I guess I need to be the team leader here and suggest that break time is over," she said. 

"I can respect that," Timothy replied as he stood. He took the chair by its backrest to propel it back to the cubical he swiped it from. 

Back at his desk, Timothy opened a shell window to the internal server using a backdoor created by the 'packet sniffer' program 'Napoleon.' It didn't take long for him to find it in the server. No one had found the source program yet and disrupted it. He placed the program on stand down with a seven-digit password. Timothy carefully extracted and compressed 'Napoleon.' He placed the file on a disk that held some subsections of code from his prior team project and then carefully, with the air of a person doing something as ordinary as scratching his forehead, tucked the disk into his canvas messenger bag. He then went back to work on Millicent's project. 

It was 8:45 PM when they finally finished the last test and were satisfied.

"I really appreciate you staying like this… on short notice," Millicent said bashfully. Timothy smiled.

"Hey, there is always the over-time, "he joked. 

Millicent's smile brightened. "See ya mañana?"

"Mañana," Timothy replied warmly as he lifted his bag. They rode the elevator down together but separated as they reached the street. Millicent waved at him as she headed for her subway stop for the line ACB lines. She lived closer to Central Park while Timothy lived closer to Greenwich Village in lower Manhattan. His single bedroom loft that would have cost a normal NYC resident $4,000 a month, but was subsidized by InterPol and UNCLE. It was a twenty-minute walk that Timothy chose to make every day. 

Back in his loft, after securing himself behind the UNCLE approved security system; he took a shower just to relax his bunched up shoulders. Timothy really didn't like being trapped behind a desk for so long and this assignment was nothing but desk-work. 

The shower helped a bit, but he knew he had a long evening behind his computer at home ahead of him. He put on the kettle to brew fresh tea. Timothy loved iced tea, but despised instant and pre-made. Only fresh brewed would do for him. 

The kettle was whistling when the door buzzer to the building sounded. Timothy answered the kettles alert before he went to the door. He sat the tea aside to steep as he went to his front room and to the small intercom near the door.

"Yes?"

"Foxx." Came the terse reply. Timothy knew that was his cue to offer him one of the twelve codes they rotated through to protect themselves. 

"Did you bring the marbled rye?"

Foxx's voice came back immediately on the tinny system. "I would have, but Hershal's bakery was closed."

It was his partner. He buzzed him in. It was less than a minute before the 'special knock' sounded on his door. Timothy put the security system on stand-by so that he could let Duncan in. 

His partner entered, scanning Timothy with a curious expression, as if he didn't expect to see him casual, dressed only in an Army tee-shirt and sweatpants. Duncan then advanced further into Timothy's apartment, making an unmistakable beeline to the kitchen. Timothy sighed haggardly but reset the security system and followed. 

"Don't you have food at home?" Timothy leaned against the door frame of the kitchen as he watched his partner begin a savage raid upon his refrigerator. 

"Condiments." Came Duncan's voice from behind the refrigerator door. "Nothing but condiments. Mustard, vinegar, pickle relish, salt… you know."

Timothy sighed again and Duncan popped up from behind the door to stare at him.

"What?"

"Nothing, Duncan," Timothy said defeated. "Help yourself."

Timothy headed back towards his computer, grabbing his messenger bag as he passed it. Settling in his worn desk chair, he logged into his web mail and went immediately to open the first message from 'Napoleon.' He had just finished the first and was going to read the second when Duncan came up behind him holding a tuna salad sandwich on rye. 

"What's that?" he asked.

"I sent a probe program into Nebulon's servers to monitor the hacking," Timothy answered. "It caught seven attempts and what the programmer saw and what finally stopped them."

"Snap-shots?" Duncan asked.

"Sorta," Timothy answered looking back at his partner. He then made a double take. "Hey, I didn't know I had tuna salad."

"You had tuna, mayonnaise and relish." Duncan shrugged. "Now you have tuna salad. Any way, you were gonna tell me how this program of yours works."

"Yeah, well, it's called a 'packet sniffer.'" Timothy began. "It can intercept and log traffic passing over a computer network or part of a network. As data streams back and forth over the network, the sniffer captures each packet and eventually decodes and analyzes its content according to the appropriate specifications. In this case, the sniffer was looking for a certain protocol that I knew the hacker team was using because it seemed to be having the most success breaking the lower defenses."

"Sorta like a protocol analyzer," Duncan muttered around a bite of his sandwich.

"Sorta but not completely like that," Timothy replied. "A true protocol analyzer is more a diagnostic tool and is also used for traffic stats. This program actually looks at the traffic and reads the appropriate packets it was programmed to retrieve. It's a standard hacker's tool."

"The hackers are being hacked then." Duncan pulled up a stool from the kitchen bar so that he could sit and watch Timothy work. 

"Hackers who get hacked are ganked," Timothy corrected.

"Whatever you say."

"Did section three get any other news from downtown?' Timothy asked as he opened the next email.

"Well, only undersecretariat Isu assurance that he signed no such document. Got any beer?"

"I'm out."

"Thought I smelled tea. I'll have some of that." Duncan got up and carried his sandwich back out to the kitchen. He pitched his voice to be heard back in the other room. "It's more than a little disturbing for some of the folk in Section One to realize that there are people in THRUSH who know who's name to forge to get such a thing done."

"First of all, we haven really established that it is THRUSH, " Timothy called back. "Secondly, it was a UN undersecretariat. Their names are not necessarily 'eyes-only' information."

"Ya think it was a lucky guess?" Duncan came back less the sandwich but holding a mug of steaming tea. In his other hand he held a glass of tea poured over ice. He sat that down near Timothy's right hand. 

"I really don't know… " Timothy looked up at his partner. "How do you know how disturbed Section One is?"

"Dr.. Kuryakin." Duncan used the Ice Prince's seldom-used title. Illya Kuryakin never asked any one to acknowledge his Ph.Ds. Duncan did so sometimes in a strangely unique respect. 

"I thought you said they were away."

"Mr. Solo and the Dragon lady, yes. The Ice Prince, no." Duncan took a careful sip of his tea. "You really need to buy some decent tea, Timmy."

"I like Lipton."

"It's crap," Duncan exclaimed mildly, but took another sip. 

Timothy turned back to his computer screen as he sipped his iced tea. 

"Did you get any shopping done?"

Timothy knew that Duncan was talking about the list of mission objectives that they discussed earlier in the day. 

"I made a foray," Timothy replied. "Got a little information, not a lot. It was a good starting point. I have some directions I'd like to take."

"More flat-arseing about?"

"Duncan, you are…" Timothy stopped himself before he said annoying. Duncan knew good and well what he was. "Well, after talking with Millicent…"

"That girly team-leader of yours," Duncan interjected.

"I wish you wouldn't do that." Timothy turned his chair to face his partner. "Millicent is a very talented young programmer; not some girly…."

"I never said she wasn't a talented programmer, did I now?" Duncan's voice was bland despite his defensive words. 

Timothy decided not to argue. He was sure that Duncan would twist his arguments anyway. 

"Any how," Timothy continued in a very deliberate tone. "As I was saying, I found out from Millicent that the project progress reports may not be being forwarded to an actual client. It could be that she just doesn't know about it, but she sounded confused... Like she should have known."

"Not a lot to go on, Timmy."

"It's a hunch," Timothy said. "But I want to check it out. If one of the firms senior officers is directly involved, I could be halfway to getting a name for the…. Hello!"

Timothy had been passively glancing back over at his monitor to see the scrolling email when he caught sight of something he really didn't expect. 

"What?" Duncan turned his attention to the screen as well.

"Someone made it all the way in." 

"What's that?" Duncan scooted his chair closer in towards Timothy's desktop.

"The program reported two full breaches." Timothy pointed to the emailed log report. "According to the time stamp, they opened and closed in less than ten seconds."

"To avoid detection?" Duncan asked.

"Not really." Timothy turned his head to look at his partner who was still studying the screen. "They were just hired to breach; not to poke around. The successful programmer --probably Ning-- got through to the goal area, just scrolled through long enough to be certain that he was where he thought he was, and then backed out."

"You computer geeks bore me."

"Not all of us can be MacGyver," Timothy remarked drolly. 

"A fine Scottish lad, I'm sure," Duncan replied with a sardonic smile. "What happens now they've have succeeded?" he then asked.

"I suspect Shrivan will report to Mark and Mark will report to whoever it is that they think is the InterPol contact person."

"If there is one," Duncan added.

"Innocent until proven guilty in this country, buddy."

"Inefficient."

"Whatever…," Timothy rolled his eyes briefly at his partner. "Hey, if The Old Man and Madeleine are both out, who are we sending the progress reports to, ourselves?"

"To Kuryakin, you git."

"Fuck you too, Duncan." Timothy turned back to his web mail. The rest of the logs were about clean up of server related tracking programs that infected from the breaches. After a moment, Timothy spoke again, changing the subject. "Have you ever noticed how Madeleine talks to The Old Man?"

"Like what?"

Of course Duncan probably couldn't give a rats ass about such a thing but Timothy found it interesting. "You know… she sounds so… less threatening."

"He is the boss, after all."

"Yes, but that isn't it," Timothy said. His hands slipped away from the keyboard and he turned his chair towards Duncan once again. "She is just so sanguine and purring and flirty and… and… girly." 

Duncan was quiet for a moment. He drained his tea and then pursed his lips in thought. "I think that says more about the Old Man. He's a smooth bastard. Is it any wonder?"

"Really?" Timothy's brow creased as he considered his partner's assessment. 

"They say Napoleon Solo has fucked every woman on the planet born between the years 1940 and 1955."

"You realize that includes our mothers, Duncan." Cooper said.

Duncan started towards the kitchen with the empty mug. He hesitated and blinked, looking back over his shoulder. "Your point then?"

Timothy turned back to his computer with an exasperated sigh. "Fuck you, Duncan," he muttered.

"You too, Timmy," Duncan called from the kitchen. The man had uncanny hearing. 

Closing down the web mail, Timothy then pulled the disk with "Napoleon" on it. He inserted the disk into the drive and waited for the auto-initiate. A window popped up showing the two programs compressed on the disk. Duncan returned from the kitchen with a refreshed cup of tea. 

"What is 'databoy?'' he asked as he settled back in his seat again. 

"It's a data tracking utility we built for a group of online retailers that have formed an business alliance. My team is doing maintenance on it."

"It's spyware."

"Precisely."

"I don't know if I can respect you any more after knowing you helped fix a spyware program."

"I know, Duncan. I know," Timothy whispered in mock anguish. 

"Hey, open it up," Duncan said. "I've always wanted to see the insides of one of those things."

"It's just a bunch of code," Timothy explained.

"Humor me."

"I always do." Timothy sighed. "It's my lot in life." He brought up the long strings of code with different algorithms out lined in blue. Duncan peered at it from his stool.

"What's with the angry manifesto?" Duncan was of course talking of the original programmer, Ted; running commentary interspersed throughout the code. 

"Ted has issues," Timothy explained. 

"That he does." Duncan sipped his tea as he continued to gaze at the screen in interest. That was when Timothy saw one very interesting line:

…and Mark Layman is a kick-back-taking asswipe. 

"Wonder what he means by that?" Timothy thought out loud.

"Come again?"

Timothy pointed to it on the screen. "Here."

Duncan squinted at it. "Doesn't have to mean a thing," he said, looking pensive. He then added, "Are you having more hunches?"

"Maybe." Timothy smiled. He made a mental note that he should shop for Head and Shoulders Shampoo tomorrow.


	2. Act 2 ~Programmers~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The digital age and UNCLE meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Clara Swift for the Brit-pick and the Beta!

The floor the firm occupied in the office building had three actual offices. All the other rooms were storage, conference, and server rooms. Mark Layman occupied one of the offices. His reasoning was that as the accounts representative, he was the front man for the clients. He needed space where he could not be disturbed when he was on an important call, or meeting a client face-to-face. The other two offices were held by the accounts payable/ payroll personnel, two lovely middle-aged ladies by the name Lois and Annette. Their lockable offices were a matter of security. Andy didn't have an office. His desk occupied a large corner space in the cubical area. Andy liked to think of himself as accessible to his work force. 

It was time for some more covert operations. So Timothy waited until a Friday evening. No one lingered in the office on a Friday evening after five. It was short work picking the lock of Mark's office door. It was the same with his two file cabinets. It took only ten minutes of searching until he found two more "copies" of the security undersecretariat letter. There was no original. The documents that were with it were only "at-cost" estimates and not enough to go on. It was time to poke through Mark's computer.

He could have done it at his own desk being as they were on a intranet, but Mark could have seen that he had been logged on to a different work station at some point and that could have set off suspicion. It was better to log Mark on at his own station. 

As for Mark's password, like most people in Nebulon, the internal server makes you rotate through five of your choice. All five are stored in the server and not on the CPUs of the individual workstations. Having built inroads into the servers with 'Napoleon,' Timothy knew a backdoor to such encrypted information. He understood the algorithm of the encryption enough to be able to compare characters to well-worn keys on Mark's keyboard. After the tenth attempt, he was in. 

The first place he went was Mark's email. Checking the date that the UN letter was supposedly sent against incoming mail, he found only a few messages that looked interesting. Upon opening them, he found what he needed. 

Mark Layman knew that the UN did not order the infiltration. Timothy printed out the emails, being sure that all headers were included. He would take them directly to UNCLE that evening. 

He was just inches away from buying the oatmeal.   
~*~

Del Floria's was run by a surly young man who had inherited the shop from his great uncle. That seemed fitting. Timothy nodded to David Del Floria as he headed towards the fitting room. The proprietor of the tailor shop was just moving out from behind his counter. "Just back, Coop?"

"Yeah… not for long though," Timothy answered as he stepped into the booth.

"That's normal." He heard called back to him by David. 

Behind the fitting room fake wall, Timothy entered his private 9-digit code and then held still with his eyes open as wide as possible. The retina scan was a brief shot of light blue laser light. The elevator door slid open. As he entered, a side slot dispensed his ID badge and key-fob. He took the badge and clipped it to his belt loop. The key fob he applied to the slot next to the elevator's floor controls. A screen lit up to the right of his hand.

Timothy Cooper  
Designation #3 Section 2  
Ser num: 3-418-729

The elevator control panel came to life, lighting only the floors his security clearance allowed. Timothy pressed the floor that led to the main office area of section 3. The ride was relatively short as the turbo elevator shot him downward at a speed that was faster than the average elevator, so much so that it was almost uncomfortable. The doors to the elevator slid open to reveal the office space for the Section Three, forensics specialist. The office cubical space was shorter for their section than for section two even though they had almost double the amount of agents. More of the floor was taken up by laboratory space than by office space. Beyond a glass partition, just to Timothy's immediate left, began the sectioned-off labs. Most of the labs looked dark, but there were a few lighted partitions, perhaps a few techs working late or someone called in on some fresh evidence. 

Timothy headed towards the desk of Paul Petro. Even at this late hour, he knew the forensics specialist would be there. Petro had no life outside of UNCLE. The skinny, balding man was slightly older than Timothy, and specialized in computer forensics. Since Timothy started the assignment, Paul had been on stand-by for support. 

Paul was indeed at his desk, an entirely messy affair with dozens of bits of scrap paper covering the surface and a pyramid of Mountain Dew cans that was almost as tall as the cubical wall. Petro looked up from his computer screen. 

"Been expecting you."

"I bet you have." Timothy took a peek at the monitor. It looked like a manga site. 

"I only have dial-up at home," Petro said defensively. "Can't look at these high-resolution, high bandwidth sites on dial-up!"

Timothy snorted but did not say anything to either condemn or condone the man's use of the UNCLE Internet connections. As long as it wasn't something morally repugnant, he really didn't have time to care. 

Timothy brandished the printed emails at the man. "I need a trace. That's the easy part."

"What's the hard part?" Petro asked, taking the snort stack of documents. 

"I need you to set up a forged IP address. We need to be this sender." Timothy taped the top page just at the 'from' line of the header.

"Not as hard as you think," Petro smiled. "How soon?"

"I'd say ASAP, but it actually depends on how fast you get the trace done and up to the Ice Prince."

"Ooo!" Petro grimaced and sucked in his breath sharply. "Kuryakin…."

"Solo's out," Timothy explained. 

"Yikes! I have to report to the dread Ice Russki?"

"He is the Section One head of Section Three, your boss's boss. What's the problem?"

"I prefer that nice thick layer of middle management that keeps me out of his sight," Petro said with a smoothing gesture. "Can't I just send it up through Chloe?"

"This is a priority project, Paul," Timothy said exasperated at the man's craven reaction. Okay, Kuryakin was intimidating, but they had a job to do. "I need Kuryakin to see it. He's the only one who can authorize my next move. This is one of my mission objectives here."

Petro sighed noisily. "KO, buddy," he said dourly. "I'll have the finished product on his desk by the AM, and a copy in your box. What about the IP address?"

"Can you just do it and hang on to it until I talk with the Ice Prince?"

Petro snorted. "That I can do!"  
~*~

Timothy stopped at his desk on his way out. Duncan had, of course, gone home for the day. His work papers were stacked in neat little piles in specific areas of his desk. Duncan had a system and Timothy learned early on not to touch the man's desk once he was gone for the day. The slightest paper moved would spell chaos. Duncan even had a specific place on the desk where people were to leave him notes. Timothy scrawled a short communication on a post-it and stuck it to that spot on Duncan's desk.

Duncan, saw Mark L's emails. We need to talk to Ted Fitch.

He didn't have to sign it. Duncan knew his handwriting. Timothy checked his email and did his check-in with central control. He then went through the Nebulon profile to pull information on current and past employees. 

Timothy had it from the office talk that Ted Fitch tendered his "forced" resignation five weeks before Timothy was hired. His Team Leader, Brandy, had resigned during Timothy's first three weeks with the firm. She had not been a team leader at the time but had moved up to some sort of office manager position. Shrivan had taken over her team. The short record file had him listed as Theodore Allen Fitch. He would be relatively easy to trace as the file did come with last known address and driver's license number. 

It would have been so easy for Timothy, even at that late hour, limiting his resources, to have tracked Ted Fitch in a matter of maybe twenty minutes. But a small rueful smile grew across Timothy's face as he thought of his partner cooling his heels for months and running short but vital courier assignments. He needed to leave something for Duncan to do. Besides, it was late and he was sick of looking at computer screens as it was. Timothy closed down his workstation and left HQ for the evening.   
~*~

It was late morning the next day when his cell phone rang the familiar chime of a call coming through on channel D. It was Duncan. 

"Cooper."

"That wasn't hard to do," Duncan began. Normally, Duncan wasn't a whiner, but that was, most definitely a complaint.

Timothy sat back at his Nebulon workstation with an amused sigh and a small smile. "Next time I'll add an applied calculus problem to the request."

"Still too easy," Duncan drawled, apathetic. "I found Ted Fitch rather easy. He's not moved in the last three weeks."

"Why would he move in the last three weeks, Duncan," Timothy said, exasperated. 

"Well, I find it comforting to know that corpses stay rather still after they have been planted."

Timothy sat up in renewed attention. "Dead?"

"As a doornail, Timmy," Duncan replied. "Police found him in his apartment, murdered. Motive was burglary. No suspect has been found or charged. I take it you find this rather interesting?"

"Yes indeed I do." Timothy said. "Anything interesting on the police report?"

"Not much. A girlfriend found him the next day. There was evidence of missing equipment from his home entertainment center. A window was forced open from a fire escape but the front door was unlocked. The police think he surprised a burglar. But here is the interesting part, Timmy; He was shot execution style, single bullet, by a .38. If he surprised a burglar, there was very little struggle. Also, there's a surprising lack of physical evidence at the scene. Some burglar was damn too clean."

"And too quiet," Timothy added. 

"Eh?" Duncan said a little confused. "Oh, there is that. In the neighborhood he was in, someone was bound to report a gunshot, but never mind that now, Timmy. I took the liberty to look into Mr. Fitch's financial affairs."

"…and?"

"And, Teddy-boy deposited over seventy thousand dollars into two bank accounts between the first two weeks of September… right about the time he resigned?"

"Yep." Timothy knew he had to get to the payroll files now. 

"Hellava severance package, Timmy. Too bad he didn't live ta spend it."

"The pay-off suggest that someone in Nebulon was ready to spend hush money," Timothy said softly as he checked about himself once more to be certain no one was eavesdropping. "But the hit suggest someone didn't trust the pay-off to work."

"I'm bettin' that the Mr. Generous and Mr. Killinator are not the same person," Duncan added. "But I bet they know each other."

"I have one more thing to look at before I send in the request for a warrant," Timothy said.

There was an amused snort from the other end of the line. "I think you just like flat-arsin' about, really. Milk it!"

"Shut your pie-hole, Foxx." Timothy closed the secure channel.   
~*~

Annette was the senior accounts payable clerk and therefore, the payroll officer. Breaking into her office was a little more difficult than breaking into Mark Layman's. The accounts payable offices were monitored. Therefore, it was time for a little UNCLE technical know-how. At the base of Timothy's cell phone, what looked to be a slot for a memory chip was actually the latch for a small access panel. On that tiny panel was the digital/analog jammer. Timothy set it to digital. Digital surveillance was actually easier to disable than analog. For all their cost-cutting, timesaving benefits, digital systems could be fooled with a series of set commands that make the video loop back on itself, over writing the events in real time. What the security people would see is what happened at 7:45 PM, for twenty minutes. 

Timothy took his time and was very careful to leave the files as neat as Annette had left them. Annette was bit on the overly organized side. She would notice one speck of dust on a paper out of place. Timothy used the camera in his phone to take pictures of the documents he needed. It had been long enough that Ted Fitch's personnel file had been purged from the computer system and was only a matter of paper record now. 

Timothy emailed the document photos directly to Foxx, tidied up his work, and slipped out the accounts payable office. He shut off the jam just as his phone vibrated. Duncan had replied in text message:

Looks like Fitch was paid handsomely to leave. 

Timothy had to agree. It was time to send the request on to Director Kuryakin. Only he, as the next in the chain of Section One command, could approach the UN International Court of Justice for the proper warrants. 

Timothy emailed all the essential evidence to Kuryakin from home, copying Duncan and Petro.   
~*~

It was not as cold as it had been over the holidays. The temperature was only in the mid thirties, but the wind whipped up from between the buildings and down the alleyways making Timothy bunch in on himself to stay warm as he walked briskly down Chambers street, heading in for a day of work at Nebulon. He was aware when the black town car with tinted windows began to show up at various places along his walk, but made no visible sign of notice. The car was shadowing him. About five blocks from Nebulon, the car finally pulled along side of him on the street. The tented glass of the rear passenger window rolled down with a smooth mechanical whine; then Timothy was under the bespectacled, hawk-like gaze of the Ice Prince himself. Timothy slowed and approached the curve. Kuryakin presented a regular business envelope out of the car window.

"Bring him in." His tone was as cold as the Manhattan winter wind that whipped past as Timothy took the envelope. The window rolled up and the town car was down the street and gone before Timothy could place the envelop in a coat pocket to continue his march to 'work.'

At his desk with a cup of coffee in his hands, he called Petro on his cell. "Got the IP?"

"Yep!" was the man's reply.

"Got an email I want to send," Timothy said.

"Text me," Petro replied. It was the long way, but the more secure way, as the text message would be going over the UNCLE secure channels. 

Timothy took the time to compose the text message during his fifteen-minute break. He finished it and sent it just seconds before Millicent managed to find him to see if he wanted to hit the vending machines with her. 

Two days passed uneventfully during which time Timothy poked about in 'databoy' to see if Ted Fitch left any clue as to what he was talking about in his commentary. He found very little. It was Friday, early afternoon when Timothy excused himself early from work, telling Millicent that he had a dentist appointment. 

Ten minutes later, Mark Layman left his office for the day.


	3. Act 3 ~Interrogation and Intimidation~

~*~

__

Act 3 ~Interrogation and Intimidation~

It is amazing in a town like New York, in a place like mid-town Manhattan, there were many places where a person could go to have an unobserved encounter. There was always some dead end street or alley way, some back street or service lane that one could use to conduct private dealings at all times of the day or night. 

Timothy was waiting in one such service lane close to 23rd street. It was close enough to other meeting sites that he had read in Mark's emails to be plausible, and he hoped Mark would accept the address without question. Mark's return "affirmative" email was intercepted by Petro, who immediately sent Timothy a green light. 

Early Friday afternoon was remarkably quiet in an eerie way in that small and unconventionally clean back alley of the garment district. Timothy waited, leaning against a wall next to a tall pile of boxes that had once held bolts of cloth. The boxes sat in the New York City winter damp, slowly disintegration as they waited to be carried away to recycling. They were a silent testimony to the failing attempt of the urbanites to adopt earth-friendly practices in a complex city that made everything earth-friendly difficult. 

When Layman rounded the corner, looking over his shoulder like a man who expected the worst to be in pursuit, Timothy gave him a few minutes to calm down his obvious nervousness and fidgeting uneasiness. Only once Layman began to look more at ease in his quiet, little, and well-lit corner of the garment district, did Timothy break cover. Layman jumped visibly when he noticed Timothy and probably would have bolted if the light of recognition hadn't dawned in his eyes. 

"You!" Layman pointed at Timothy, his eyes narrowing, as he seemed to search his memory. "From the office…. Cooper?"

"Correct," Timothy said calmly. He slowed his approach, assessing the man, looking for possible weapons. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Layman tensed and Timothy felt a reflexive shiver go through his own right side as his entire body prepared to draw his Walther. 

"I need to ask you some questions," Timothy said in a soothing tone. 

"What the fuck?"

Slowly, smoothly, Timothy pulled his UNCLE ID fold from his jacket pocket. As he flipped it open, Mark Layman's eyes grew round in terror before he could even read who had him. 

"Fuck!" the man exclaimed. He pushed Timothy backwards as he broke past him into a run, heading towards the opening of the alley that lead to Chelsea Avenue. 

Timothy's reflexes kicked in. The Walther cleared leather before Mark Layman had taken five strides. By stride seven, the soft, sharp snap of the air discharge signaled the release of a sleep dart. By stride ten, Mark Layman stumbled to a halt, slumped awkwardly to his knees, and then hit the pavement with a loud smack that made Timothy wince in sympathy. 

"That's gonna leave a mark." Timothy re-holstered his weapon and took a step towards the still form when he heard footstep running towards him from behind. He was reaching once more for his Walther, the smooth metal grip of the butt slipping easily back into his grasp as if it sprung there. But Timothy froze on the draw when he saw Millicent, short, straight hair, flying about her frighten, face as she ran towards him.

"Cooper!" she shouted breathlessly. "What's going on!" 

He didn't get a chance to answer her, but, fortunately, he caught her as she stumbled into his embrace following the sound of another short, sharp cough of an UNCLE sleep dart being fired. Timothy saw the offending dart sticking from the back of Millicent's neck, in the thick muscle just between neck and shoulder. Millicent looked up at Timothy, the fear very present in her eyes; then she slipped away from consciousness and went limp in his arms.

"Great!" Timothy exclaimed.

Duncan stepped out from his hiding place, which had been a heavily shadowed back alley doorway. 

"What the hell is she doin' here?" He asked as he approached. 

"I don't know!" Timothy answered incensed. Millicent flopped comically in his embrace as he swung about to face his partner. 

Duncan reached for the girl, patting down her limp form as she hung from Timothy's arms. He came back with a palm-size device. 

"She has a taser," Duncan muttered contritely.

"It's small," Timothy observed.

Duncan pressed the trigger of the device and watched the blue arching current that jumped for a second between electrodes. "But it's fully charged." 

Timothy glared at his partner.

"Good thing I signed out the minivan, eh?" Duncan shrugged, but moved past him to go look at their captive, Mark Layman. 

Timothy shook his head. He hated minivans and had begged Duncan to sign out an SUV or the sedan. Duncan, true to form, had resisted his request. As was ultimately usual in the situation, it was for the best. 

"Better load 'em up," Duncan said over his shoulder. 

"We can't take Millicent," Timothy protested.

Duncan Foxx shrugged. "Can't leave her here… unconscious."

Timothy sighed in frustration.

"Anyway, she has a taser. Isn't that illegal in this city?"

"Girl has to protect herself…" Timothy said.

"Some law enforcement officer you are," Duncan teased. 

"Tasers are restricted in the whole State of New York, not just the city, you smart-ass."

"More reason why she shouldn't have one." Duncan served Timothy an annoyingly triumphant grin. "Grounds to run her in."

"To UNCLE?" Timothy frowned at his partner.

"You rather drop her of at the local police precinct with her taser?"

"Bastard!"

"Git!"

"Dick-head!"

"Arsehole!"

"Come on then," Duncan growled. "Let's get these two loaded before they both wake up."

Apparently there was nothing else for it.

~*~

Timothy had watched Illya Kuryakin perform an interrogation only once before, and he had been impressed with how much he could intimidate and insinuate with what he didn't say. Director Kuryakin was an UNCLE legend when it came to the interrogation room. Recruited from the KGB, Kuryakin had never conducted an interrogation without inflicting pain until after the year 1961. That was according to certain rumors, however. Timothy could easily see how those rumors might have been based on facts. 

Today the Ice Prince was in fine form. Neat and impeccable in his tweed jacket that just brought out the luster of his graying-gold hair, his handsome face set in a stern yet calm expression, he entered the room where Mark Layman sat, strapped to the interrogation chair. The chair was a slightly reclined affair that looked like the love child of a barber's chair and a dental exam chair. The buckling leather restraints were secure, but not cruelly tight. Layman twitched intermittently as he began to allow himself to come to terms with his trapped situation. 

Director Kuryakin regarded the man quietly, standing at ease with both hands in his trouser pockets. He looked down his nose at Layman with a glare that was somewhere between disapproval and boredom. Predictably, Layman spoke first, demanding like a true American.

"Where the fuck am I? Are you in charge here? Am I under arrest? I want to see my lawyer!"

Kuryakin didn't even blink. He just stared at the man as he ranted and raved for another few minutes. It seemed as if he was letting the poor bastard run it out of his system. Timothy and Duncan stood just beyond the two-way mirror in the semi-dark observatory. It was time to watch a genius at work. 

After a second shorter out burst, Kuryakin finally moved. He took a seat in the chair across from Layman, siting poker straight and regarding him in stony silence. For a second, Timothy saw a fleeting glimpse of fear in Layman's eyes. Kuryakin must have seen it too. Finally he spoke.

"Mr. Marcus Alexander Layman, my name is Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, Director of Forensic Science and acting Chief Operations Officer for the United Network Command of Law and Enforcement, North American. You are here at the request of the UN Security Council on Terrorism Affairs. We have some questions…"

"What the hell!" The man interrupted, his voice quavering with a note of panic. "I want to see my lawyer! You can't hold me like this! I want…"

"Mr. Layman… Mr. Layman…" Director Kuryakin's voice only raised slightly to be heard over Layman's near keening panic. When the man's protest finally came to a sputtering halt, Kuryakin continued. "We have some questions…"

"Not till I see my lawyer!" Layman demanded obstinately. His chin came out in visible defiance. "I know my rights! You can't hold me! I'll sue you and your whole little cop shop! I don't recall being told I was under arrest. No one read me my Miranda rights!"

"Mr. Layman, you are not being held by a US law enforcement agency. We are an international entity, part of InterPol. We do not have 'Miranda rights.' We hold only to the provisions out lined by Sixth Committee of the General Assembly. Unfortunately for you, that means that we may hold you and question you without legal counsel. We may obtain information from you using all means at our disposal up to, but not including secondary measures banned by the Ad Hoc Committee on the Scope of Legal Protection under the Convention on the Safety of United Nations and Associated Personnel…. Do you understand this, Mr. Layman?"

Timothy knew that Kuryakin did not expect Layman to understand a damn thing he just said, and he doubted if he would clarify. Timothy understood what had just been relayed to the captive. They have the right to question the man using all means except defined torture techniques. 

"What the…" Layman looked stunned.

Kuryakin took the moment of stunned silence Layman gave him to pick up a manila file folder sitting on the table next to him. He pursed the contents at leisure, leaving Layman to stare at him in open-mouthed indignation. 

"Mr. Layman, how did you come to make the acquaintance of Gustavo Benuccio?"

Director Kuryakin's softly spoken question caused Mark Layman to flinch in his bonds. Even from the observation room, Timothy could tell that the man's respiration had increased. 

"Um…"

"Mr. Layman?"

"He's a client of my firm…"

"Is he?" Kuryakin drawled with a note of skepticism. He then paused to scrutinize the captive. After a couple of silent seconds under the blue-ice gaze, Layman swallowed and seemed to press back in his seat as if to escape Kuryakin's intense glare. Finally, Director Kuryakin made a small hand gesture towards the door. That was Timothy and Duncan's cue. Duncan leaned to press a wall intercom.

"The Director is ready for you," He spoke into the small speaker as he held the button.

Seconds later, two professionally dressed personnel wearing lab coats entered the interrogation room. They sat a bag on the room's sole table and proceeded to don latex exam gloves. Layman watched them with a noticeably growing anxiety in his eyes. He actually gave his bonds a violent, convulsive tug when he saw them pull a syringe and saline line from the bag.

"Do not concern yourself, Mr. Layman," Director Kuryakin spoke in his soft but business like tone. "This is only to help you relax and to stay hydrated."

Layman jerked in his bonds again. "Fuck you, buddy! You gotta be fucking kidding me! You can't fucking do this to me! I'm an American…"

"I'm quite sure that I can, Mr. Layman," Director Kuryakin voice was velvet steel in the acoustically correct room. "It's for your own good, I assure you. These questionings can take much from a man. We wouldn't want you to suffer from dehydration." 

Timothy had felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine as Director Kuryakin had spoken that last word. His voice had dropped almost an octave and he had let his Russian accent thicken so that it curved with majestic cruelty about the word. Only Illya Kuryakin could make a simple fact like stress-caused dehydration sound singularly menacing. 

Layman fought, but he was too securely held in his bonds. Still, it took some time and effort to get the IV line in. The techs worked with silent, grim-faced diligence over Layman even as he spat verbal abuse at them. 

Director Kuryakin waited silently as they work. Once the techs had finished with the now panting and sweating Mark Layman and stepped back, Kuryakin stood, but still he remained silent. With deliberate care, he removed his wire-framed glasses with one hand while fishing in his coat pocket with the other. He removed a small pale blue cloth that he used to clean the lenses. He took his time, examining the glass fastidiously for missed spots. He then put the glasses back on, turning back to the file folder on the table. He opened it and removed a sheet. 

 

"Mr. Layman," he said. "We will now discuss your electronic correspondences with Signore Benuccio." Director Kurakin then turned the page, displaying one of the seven emails that Timothy lifted from Layman's work account. "He paid you to have your firm compromise the security of the UN and InterPol network."

Layman gaped at the email for a moment. He then closed his mouth and cleared his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and a little shaky. "He told me that he was an official with InterPol…"

As Layman spoke, Director Kuryakin turned slightly, putting the first page down and picking up another. "Here he clearly states that there will be personal rewards for you if you follow his instructions, which happen to include the 'validation' of a forged document. You expect me to believe that you, Mr. Layman, a man with an MBA, a successful business partner in a fast-growing firm, actually believed that an agent of InterPol would ask you to accept and endorse a falsified document?" 

"I… I…."

"Did he tell you why he needed you to engage your firm in such a criminal pursuit?"

"I… I… I don't know anything!" Layman was panting now in panic.

"Were you aware that he is has been strongly connected with a terrorist organization called THRUSH?"

Layman did not reply but stared at the Director with wide, nervous eyes. 

Director Kuryakin looked up at him sharply but stilled. He examined the man for long moments and then finally nodded to the techs. One came forward, pulling what appeared to be a 5cc syringe from his pocket. He undid the cap to the hypodermic needle and applied it to a port on the IV line. Layman twisted violently in his seat, trying to see what exactly was being pumped into him. 

"Please, do not be alarmed, Mr. Layman," Kuryakin said soothingly. "It is only something to help you relax."

Propofol, Timothy thought to himself. It could have been mixed with a mild hallucinogen as well. But Propofol, usually used during endoscopy, was an ultrashort-acting hypnotic agent that provided amnesia, but minimal levels of analgesia. In the correct dose, Layman would soon be tractable, while being unimpeded to answer questions and respond to commands. Given the level of intimidation Director Kuryakin's physical presence alone could inspire, Timothy doubted the hallucinogen was needed. 

It was amazing what the Director could do with a scowl. He wasn't a big man, standing at only 5'8", but he had the posture of a hard man. He didn't look like someone who had time for such trivial things as mercy or empathy. There was no "good cop- bad cop" needed for Director Kuryakin's style of interrogation. He was the "indifferent cop" who saw the interrogation subject as a means to an end, and he would get to that end one way or another. 

"Perhaps," Director Kuryakin said in a softer voice, "you would prefer to talk about Signore Benuccio American operative?"

Layman didn't answer right away. He blinked and his head swayed slightly on his neck as if it had just got too heavy to keep perfectly upright. Director Kuryakin pushed off from the table and began a slow pace around Layman in his chair. As he passed the techs, Kuryakin nodded again, a clear signal that they were dismissed. The two exited the room. 

"Once more, Mr. Layman," Director Kuryakin enunciated clearly. "Signore Benuccio American operative?"

"Urban Coyote…." Layman slurred dazedly. 

"Yes, Mr. Layman." Director Kuryakin said as he passed Layman's face. "Signore Benuccio calls him Urban Coyote. Tell me about Urban Coyote."

"Dunno…." Layman licked his lips and tried to follow Director Kuryakin with his head, but flopped about almost comically as his head moved from side to side to track the mobile man's movements. "I… I… Dunno….."

"What does Urban Coyote look like?"

"Never saw… face. Helmet… black… and a visor. Never spoke. Just handed me stuff…"

"What stuff, Mr. Layman?"

"Stuff!" Layman shrugged in his bonds. "You know… stuff…." Layman was silent for a while, his head flopped forward, but Timothy knew he was not out. The man's chest heaved in panic. After a while he shook his head and lifted his face.

"He just told me to get the job done. Look, man, I dunno nothing else. He paid me… he paid me…"

"And you paid Ted Fitch to keep quiet?"

"He was gonna tell Andy!"

"So you paid him to shut up?" Director Kuryakin asked.

Layman nodded drunkenly, but was brought up short when Director Kuryakin abruptly pulled his chair around to face him with an unkind jerk. He leaned into the man looking him dead in the eye. Once more his voice lowered to a growl and the Russian accent grew thick.

"Did you pay to have him killed too?"

"Whaaaa?" Layman muttered in shock.

"He is dead, Mr. Layman; killed by a pro who knew what to do to fool the overworked NYPD forensics investigators into believing it was a robbery that turned to homicide." Kuryakin let go of the chair and stood upright once more, looking down his nose at Mark Layman. "But we know it was not a burglary. It was a hit, Mr. Layman. Yes?"

"I don't know nothin' . I… I… Fitch knew! He knew I got the money to make the project happen. He was such an asshole… couldn't keep him on…. Paid him to leave…. Didn't kill him. I swear!"

Layman was practically sobbing. Director Kuryakin resumed his stroll about the chair. His pace quickened.

"I would be better inclined to believe you if you were more forth coming about Gustavo Benuccio."

Layman was panting in a prelude to hyperventilation. He then opened his mouth and sang like a canary.

"Gustavo Benuccio…. Gustavo Benuccio…. He paid to have InterPol cracked…. Couldn't do it alone…. Had to put a team on it."

"So you and he forged the document to fool Andrew Simmons," Director Kuryakin supplied.

"Yes." Layman licked dry lips. "Yes… Then Fitch… on the team…. Figured out I was getting a kick-back… Paid him to go…. Got Brandy a new job…. Win-win… everybody's happy!" Layman giggled like a lunatic for a few seconds. Director Kuryakin waited until his fit ended in a sputtering choke. 

"Urban Coyote, Mr, Layman." Kuryakin said.

"I told you! I… told… you… dunno. Never saw his face. Short guy in leather. Never spoke. Dunno."

"What did Urban Coyote supply?"

"Go between… Benuccio doesn't trust email and cell phones all the time… knew digital communications are vulnerable. 

"That is why there are only seven emails," Kuryakin said. "How many correspondence were there?"

Layman snorted a short laugh. "Oh, at least fifty. He's a real micro-manager, that one."

"Now pay attention, Mr Layman." Kuryakin's voice grew more Russian once again. "Why? What is the target?"

"Dunno…" Layman's head shook violently in denial.

"The Target."

"He didn't tell me…"

"I think he did, " Director Kuryakin said. "The target, Mr. Layman."

"He… didn't…."

Director Kuryakin sighed, stopping beside Layman. "Your lack of cooperation disturbs me, Mr. Layman. I had hoped to hand you over to your American justice department with more to work with than what you have given me."

Layman looked up at the Director who did not look back at him. 

"I will have to hand you over to them as a uncooperative accessory to a terrorist organization. I believe under the current law, they may hold you indefinitely without legal counsel? I believe they still send such cases to Guantanamo Bay." 

Layman was panting again. "I didn't…. I didn't…."

"Very well."

"He said something about Amsterdam!" Layman nearly shouted, then he was sobbing brokenly.

"Is that all, Mr. Layman."

Mark Layman nodded, not looking up as he whimpered. "He'd have Urban Coyote kill me…."

"No one will kill you, Mr. Layman."

Timothy knew that Director Kuryakin didn't make idle promises in interrogation. Mark Layman was safe from the hands of Gustavo Benuccio and his associate. Mark Layman was going from their hands into the hands of the FBI.

Director Kuryakin walked from the interrogation room abruptly. In moments he was in Observation. Timothy and Duncan turned to face him in unison.

"Mr. Foxx, call La Guardia and have a UN jet ready for a transatlantic trip. Give them the authorization code of Section One Chief Operations Officer." Director Kuryakin handed Duncan a card that had a long string of letters and numbers printed across it below the name Napoleon Solo. Kuryakin then turned his intense gaze to Timothy.

"Mr. Cooper, perhaps you should see the young lady safely home. She should be waking up now. Be careful to tell he only what she needs to know," the Director added pointedly. 

"Yes, sir," Cooper replied respectfully. Duncan and he turned to complete their task.

"Mr. Cooper?" Director called causing both men to pause at the door. "You might want to ask the young lady what she was doing in that alley with Mr. Layman and you… And do be expeditious. We have a urgent flight to catch."

"Yes, sir."

~*~

 

Millicent was just waking when Timothy entered the small courtesy room. She had been laid out on a comfortable couch with a light blanket and a pillow. It had taken the sedative longer to run through her smaller body than it had Mark Layman's. 

Timothy took a seat on the coffee table before the couch and waited as Millicent slowly came back from the drugged sleep. She blinked sleep bleary eyes at him and tried to sit up. She moaned in discomfort when moving too fast proved to be disagreeable.

"Easy now," Timothy said softly as he reached out a hand to steady her. 

"Tim?" she said groggily. She pushed her hair back from her eyes with a shaky hand as she focused her attention on Timothy. 

"Yeah." Timothy smiled. "It's me. You feel okay, Milli?"

Millicent nodded slightly. "Just really fuzzy."

"It's the sedative," Timothy explained. "Do you need a drink of water?"

She looked up at Timothy with wide-eyed gratitude. "Yes, thank you." 

Timothy poured her a glass of ice water from a waiting pitcher. He handed it to Millicent who brought the glass to her lips and then hesitated, looking at Timothy with clear suspicion.

"It's okay, Milli," Timothy reassured. 

"Are you the cops?" she asked.

Timothy shook his head and smiled. "Not exactly." He then took a deep breath as he prepared to tell her something that he knew from past experience, people found hard to believe. "I am a man from UNCLE."

"Huh?" Maybe she was too young to remember the old TV show.

"I work for the United Network Command of Law and Enforcement - UNCLE. We are the covert wing of InterPol."

"UNCLE?" She squinted at him. "Like the TV show?" So she did remember. 

"Yeah," Timothy answered.

Millicent gawked at him with a small, surprised smile on her face. "No way!"

Timothy's smile broadened. "Way." It never ceased to amuse him how people would doubt the existence of UNCLE beyond being the product of American 60s cold war television. There were plenty of shows around that time and beyond that featured the CIA, the FBI and even the British MI 5, but no one seemed to think UNCLE was real. 

"What's going on, Cooper?" she asked, letting the smile fall from her face. "Why did you shoot Mark?"

"Milli, why were you in that alley?" Timothy countered her questions with a question of his own. 

Millicent sat back, a little huddled in on herself. "Ted told me to watch Mark…" She stopped, looking very nervous. 

"Ted?" Timothy prompted gently. 

"He thought Mark was up to something illegal," Millicent continued. "Mark almost never leaves the office early. I decided to follow… I had a feeling Ted was right. I guess I should call him."

"Ted's dead, Milli," Timothy said gently. 

Millicent's eyes went round in alarm and she sat down her glass of water inattentively, nearly missing the table. 

"No," she gasped.

Timothy did not reply but looked upon her sympathetically. Carefully he took one of her hands. 

"No!" Her face crumpled in grief and she fell forward on to Timothy's shoulder. Timothy put a comforting arm about her, soothing her back with a slow caress. 

"He was killed in his apartment about three weeks ago," Timothy said.

Millicent sniffed, pulling her head back to look at Timothy. "I know I talked to him… I don't know… maybe a few weeks ago? He was going to California with his friend DeeDee. He thought he could get a job with Microsoft. That would have been the Holy Grail." She smiled a bit at the memory, but then the sadness over took her once more. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle her soft sobs. 

"You were rooting for him," Timothy said softly.

"Yeah," Millicent admitted looking away. "How did he…?"

"The police report said he surprised a burglar."

"Poor Ted…" she whispered. 

"I'm going to take you home now," Timothy said, giving her a final gentle pat. He stood up before her and offered her his hand. Millicent took it, standing up slowly. Timothy gave her an encouraging smile. 

He had to blindfold her from the exit, past the underground parking and all the way past 23rd street. Once they were back in mid-town Manhattan, he released the blindfold. Millicent sat quietly beside him on the ride, looking out the passenger side window at the New York evening with a look of profound sadness in her eyes. Timothy figured she was only grieving the loss of a friend. This could not have been an easy day for her. She found out that people around her are not what they seem, her employer may have been up to something illegal, and someone she respected was senselessly killed.

Timothy walked her up to the front door of her complex, but stopped as she slipped her key in and opened the security door. 

"You're not coming up?" she asked shyly.

"I can't," he replied.

Millicent smiled. "Spy stuff?"

Timothy smiled and nodded. 

"You sure don't look like a spy," Millicent said giggling a little. 

"Thank you." Timothy beamed at her to show her that her assessment was actually a compliment. 

She took a step nearer to him. "A Man from UNCLE," she said wistfully. "So is it really like the show?"

"Except the campy villains and the tricked out guns, yes," Timothy replied. 

"Is there really a Napoleon Solo?" she asked.

"Yep," Timothy said, but then added, "But he is better looking than Robert Vaughn… and David McCallum is probably better looking than Illya Kuryakin."

Millicent giggled again but then sobered, looking Timothy over. She leaned into him, her lips brushed his gently in a feather light kiss. She backed away slowly, looking into his eyes with silent wonder.

"Be careful." She whispered.

Timothy smiled. "I will."

 

[Back to UNCLE 2005](http://www.soulsistahslash.com/_private/Batagur1/UNCLE2005.htm)

[Contact SoulSistahSlash](mailto:batagur@soulsistahslash.com)


	4. Act 4 ~Friends with Benefits~

~*~

__

The Lear jet with the blue UN symbol on the tail was warmed up and ready when they reached La Guardia. Duncan was to pilot her, and he ran through the preflight checks with care. Timothy took a seat in the co-pilots chair. Director Kuryakin was already settled in the cabin, reading some intel reports from Italy and sipping on hot tea from a travel mug. 

"He's really worried," Duncan finally said to Timothy after a very long silence. They were waiting for clearance. 

"How can you tell?" Timothy asked.

"He's on this plane."

"I thought that was just him being a micro-manager," Timothy countered. He looked back through the cockpit door but could not see Director Kuryakin from his vantage point. 

"This one is big, Timmy," Duncan sighed grimly. "The Old Man and several other continental COOs are in Amsterdam right now, along with a good portion of the Security Council."

"I thought you said he and Madeleine were at The Hague." Timothy frowned at his partner.

"They were. By now, they are in Amsterdam."

"How do you know all this shit and I don't know anything?" Timothy said caustically.

"I pay attention," Duncan replied without presumption. "And you were out of the office for a bit."

Timothy did not reply to Duncan's explanation. It was true. Being so tied up in achieving his mission goals, he was not very aware of what was transpiring back at HQ. He sort of relied on Duncan to keep his ear to the ground for him and let him know if there was anything amiss. 

"Did he get anything more from Layman?" Timothy asked.

"He didn't try," Duncan replied. 

Timothy nodded. He knew that Layman had given up all that he consciously knew. If he knew more, it would take hours or days of picking through the man's memory to find some tidbit he might have seen or heard but overlooked as unimportant to him. 

The tower came over their headsets, an airtraffic controller addressed UN transcontinental 5800JX12 giving them clearance on south east runway 9. They were to proceed to that runway. They were in line behind two other light jets. 

"We really don't know what the plot is," Timothy said as Duncan taxied them to the edge of the line up. 

"He knows," Duncan muttered. "He has a sixth sense about these things. I think the KGB put it in him."

"A sixth sense or a useful paranoia?" Timothy countered.

Duncan shrugged. "Whatever it is, it works."

It wasn't long until the tower cleared them. Duncan pulled them onto the runway and then opened the throttle to give them lift acceleration. The ground dropped away quickly before they were even three fourths of the way down the runway. After achieving an altitude of 25 thousand feet, Duncan turned the jet northeast, into the darkness and away from the brightly-lit New York skyline. Morning was not far away. They would be in Amsterdam in ten hours. They had only one stop between, London to refuel. 

They had been thirty minutes into their flight, at cruising altitude, Timothy decided to check on Director Kuryakin just out of courtesy. When he got up from his seat in the cockpit Duncan looked at him blandly.

"Gonna check in with the Ice Prince?"

Sometimes it was uncanny how Duncan and he could share similar thoughts, but Timothy had often heard that that was how it was with really good agent teams. 

"He might need something."

"Hey Timmy, everything he wants, he has. The rest he lets exist at his indulgence."

"Okay, partner," Timothy smirked at Duncan as he stepped away from his chair. 

Illya Kuryakin perhaps did let somethings go, at his tolerance, but Timothy was sure that the man could not possibly have everything. He was a stranger naturalized into a strange land. Timothy knew he had no next of kin, no known significant other, and not even a pet cat… at least not any more. All he had was his partner and best friend Napoleon Solo, the Chief Operations Officer of UNCLE North America. So many people have called him a cold bastard that Timothy no longer questioned the validity of the claim. And if Director Kuryakin's veins were filled with ice water, then it was safe to assume that his only concern for now was reaching the conference in the Netherlands to thwart any attack Gustavo Benuccio's cell of THRUSH had in mind. But Timothy's instincts told him differently, and he wasn't sure why. 

Maybe it was because Timothy knew Napoleon Solo. He knew how the Old Man could inspire confidence, trust and loyalty in his agents. He knew how he could make them look up to him with affection and easy enthusiasm to please. Napoleon Solo was more than a boss; he was an icon and a leader to which people found easy to pledge their zeal. 

It was Napoleon Solo's presence in his life that proved that Director Kuryakin was not quite the cold and soulless creature people often complained he was. Timothy could not imagine Napoleon Solo keeping such a being by his side for close to thirty-five years. There was something redeeming about Director Kuryakin, other than his sheer genius, that kept the Old Man his friend.

The Director did not look up from his reading as Timothy sat down across from him, but he began to talk to him as if he had always been sitting there.

"When we arrive in London, Mr. Cooper, establish contact with The Hague offices again. I want to be certain that the conference itinerary has not changed for any reason." 

"Yes, sir," Timothy responded automatically. 

"In the meantime, what did your young lady tell you."

"Ah,,, sir, yes…" Timothy always felt a little off balance when dealing one-on-one with Director Kuryakin. Most agents did. "Um.. Ted Fitch had told Millicent that Layman was up to no good. She followed him on a hunch."

"Hm…" The Director looked up briefly at Timothy and then looked back down at the papers he was examining. "You know that we have been tracking most of Gustavo Benuccio's THRUSH cell for the past eight months. A number of those emails came from his villa in Tuscany. But a few came from a New York location."

"Urban Coyote, sir?" Timothy asked.

"I would have liked to have had the time to track down his sleeper in New York, Mr. Cooper." The Director looked up at Timothy. His intense blue eyes catching Timothy in a solid stare. "That will have to wait for another day."

Timothy nodded.

"Get yourself a drink, Mr. Cooper. I believe the bar has Lipton tea."

Timothy's mouth dropped open for only a second but he didn't give in to the urge to ask how he knew Lipton was his tea of choice. This was the Ice Prince, after all. Timothy got up from his seat and went to the tiny cupboard bar. In the refrigerator, beside the champagne and vodka were sodas. Timothy grabbed a cola. 

When he returned to his seat, he noticed the Director eyeing his drink choice, but he made no comment about it. 

"There will be a meeting of regents before a ball tomorrow evening," Director Kuryakin began unexpectedly. "All eight Continental Operations Officers are expected to be there with their CEAs, Mr. Cooper. The location is not as secured as the other meeting locations… The chiefs are a bit complacent about their own abilities. Because there is also a strategic meeting of the UN/InterPol Sixth Committee, they have ordered the bulk of the security to be placed over them. It would be a perfect opportunity for THRUSH to wipe-out almost a third of Section One." The Director took a page from the papers he was scanning and handed to Timothy.

"You don't think that it might actually be the Sixth Committee that is the target?" Timothy asked as he looked over the conference itinerary. 

The Director lip twitched up in a small mirthless smirk. "They would like us to believe that, Mr. Cooper. All of the meetings were a matter of public record. They had to be. If they wanted to hit the Sixth Committee, they would have had a better opportunity while they were still at The Hague. Not all the members will be present in Amsterdam, but all the Continent chiefs will. 

"The meetings were a matter of public record, yes. But the precise location of the Section One chiefs meeting was not. However, a person who had access to our joint mainframe could have easily slipped into locked files and read the classified itinerary."

"That's why they wanted to hack us," Timothy said softly.

"Precisely," Director Kuryakin agreed. "But I fear there maybe more to it than just a glance at a few classified documents."

"What else?"

"I do not know, Mr. Cooper," The Director said as he lifted his tea mug. "But I am sure we will soon find out."

It was distressing enough to know that a cell of THRUSH may have had full run of the UNCLE database. Who knew what they might have gleaned from all of those confidential files? Every active agent's real name and real vital statistics was part of the classified section of the database. Yes, the information was encrypted, but as Millicent said of the firewall and security of the InterPol intranet, it's all about having the right people and the right amount of time. Timothy's thoughts were immediately of his mother and sister in New Jersey. 

But, then again, They had to be in and out very quickly to avoid detection by a prolonged information grab. It was safe to assume that who ever went in knew to look for the sealed itinerary. That was as easy as another "packet sniffer" program. 

"Get some rest, Mr. Cooper," The Director said, calling Timothy's attention back to the moment. "I suspect we will get very little rest once we sit down in The Netherlands." 

Timothy nodded, but Director Kuryakin had already turned his attention back to the documents he had been looking over before. The Director was right; they would not get very much rest. The meeting before the ball was scheduled at 6 PM GMT. They would arrive at Northolt RAF base in London by 4:20 PM GMT, and would take some time to refuel and make the inquiries that the Director had asked for. 

Timothy settled back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and giving a long yawn. He had been up since 7 AM that morning. It was now 3 AM New York time. 

~*~

Timothy wasn't sure when Director Kuryakin got up and exchanged places with Duncan. Timothy awoke to the call of nature to find Duncan curled on the seat across from him with a blanket and a small pillow. Timothy was careful not to wake his partner. 

Regardless of his best efforts, Duncan blinked and slowly sat up as Timothy returned. It was already daylight outside. Duncan yawned and rubbed a hand over his face. 

"Time, Timmy?"

Timothy looked at his watch. "7 AM EST."

Duncan yawned again. "Three hours outside of London. I better relieve Dr. Kuryakin."

He's probably tired." Timothy nodded. "Been a long day, and he's not young any more."

The amused snort that issued from Duncan was neither attractive nor kind. "The man's a machine. He may be old, but he can run on less sleep than the two of us." 

Timothy eyed his partner. "I find that hard to believe."

"I guarantee he's been up longer than the both of us. Dr. Kuryakin gets up at 4 AM daily."

"Why are you such a fount of Illya Kuryakin trivia?" Timothy glared at his partner. The question was not really meant to be answered but to be used as a genial jab at the man. Duncan chose to answer.

"He's a fascinating guy. Duncan shrugged. "Probably the most fascinating person in all of UNCLE… or InterPol for that matter."

Timothy rolled his eyes. "You are a freak, you know."

"You fixed spyware. That makes you worse."

Timothy smiled. There was something bizarrely endearing about his partner. Maybe it was because Timothy knew he really didn't mean it. The strange banter was how they entertained each other. Otherwise, they had a good rapport like most long-term agent teams. They had worked so long and so well together that they could guess each other's moves. They would often see the same pieces of the puzzle and draw the same conclusions. At the same time they could draw on and build on each other very well. 

Timothy wondered if that was how it was for the Old Man and the Ice Prince. Did they have that special rapport? They probably did. Why else would they still be together after all these years. They say that the Old Man refused to release Kuryakin as his partner, after he had been promoted. One of the benefits of being management is being able to pull stuff like that off. 

"Director Kuryakin said that Benuccio's cell probably hacked into the intranet to get the 'eyes-only' time and location of the meeting of the Section One chiefs. He also thinks that they may want to do something more with the breach."

"Makes sense," Duncan said, rubbing his eyes. "You open a chink in the armor, you gotta exploit it fast."

"I hope Section Three can close the breach."

Duncan frowned slightly and his head tilted in confusion. "You gave Petro the specs for that packet-sniffer thingy, didn't you?" 

Timothy gave his partner a totally blank stare. Part of the packet sniffer, Napoleon, would be able to locate the threat coming through the back door created by the hackers just from having prior experience with the route, and Timothy had left it sitting on his desk at UNCLE New York.

"Uh-oh."

~*~

Timothy talked with Duncan for a few minutes longer to be certain that the fatigue was still not in control of him. Then Duncan returned to the cockpit of the plane to take over control from the Director. The plane had been mostly on autopilot, but it had still required an awake pilot at the controls. 

Director Kuryakin returned to his seat across from Cooper. His demeanor cool and control, he did not seem fatigued in the least. He said nothing to Timothy, but picked up the group of documents he had been examining earlier and continued his perusal of them. 

Timothy opened his cell phone and checked the time. The phone had switched time zones automatically. It was not set to take or receive calls. Timothy had disabled the call function when the flight began. He would re-enable it once they landed. He wished he could call Petro now and tell him to pick up the 'databoy' disk on his desk. It would have to wait until they sat down in London. 

After an hour of uncomfortable silence between him and Director Kuryakin, Timothy decided to join his partner in the cockpit. 

~*~

_  
_

The London offices local director, who had dire news for them as soon as their feet touched the tarmac, met them at Northolt. 

"Glad to see you blokes. Secure channels A through F are down."

Timothy's first reaction was to open his cell phone and try to dial in. After a few seconds the small screen displayed the message, "Network Unavailable." Timothy relocked the call feature and then unlocked it to reset. He called in once more and got the same message. 

Duncan was peering over his shoulder. "Damn."

"We need this plane refueled and in the air within the hour." Director Kuryakin looked unperturbed as he issued orders at their London host. "Whatever it is they were planning, they know we are on to them and they have moved up their schedule a bit. Mr. Cooper?"

Timothy came forward.

The Director's intense frown pinned him to the spot. "Right now, you are the expert on the intruder's method of entry into our system. Is there anything we can do from here?"

The way in was a simple back door. Disrupting communications was not that difficult a process. Considering the satellites depended upon relays in Singapore, Helsinki, Melbourne, Punta Arenas in Chile, and Butte, Montana, it would be easy to send a bad command through one relay and have them all collapse. It was like what Mr. Scott said on Star Trek: "The more complicated the plumbing, the easier it is to clog the drain."

The problem would be finding the one relay with the one bad command. It was something that he, Timothy, couldn't do without his packet sniffer. But he knew where the packet sniffer was, and he knew who could do it. 

"Any one have a laptop with WhyFi?" 

The London man, Henry Porter, frowned at Timothy. "What good will it do ya? The network is completely down."

"Yes," Timothy agreed. "UNCLE and InterPol are down. But the whole Internet isn't."

~*~

Back at the main hanger offices, a Dell notebook computer was sat before Timothy. The computer had WhyFi but there was no "hot-spot" close to the airbase. Fortunately, the computer also had a DSL ethernet card. With the Director looking over one shoulder and Duncan looking over another, he began to search the computer's pre-installed software for AOL setup. 

"I haven't met a computer yet that didn't come with AOL and MSN."

"This is a British machine, Timmy," Duncan said softly. "Are ya sure you'll find that in there."

Timothy pulled up the program menu that had an icon that said "AOL Broadband and unlimited Internet access." 

"Oh, I'm sure." Timothy grinned. He pulled out his wallet and extracted his UNCLE issue Master Card. "This is AOL's lucky day. UNCLE is about to buy an account." 

It wouldn't do to try to send a direct email. The intranet was down. But Timothy knew, by the nature of the ether-net connection, the Internet was probably not completely down. If that was the case, Timothy had only to go to one Internet forum and post a message. A quick search on the Google search engine (with 'safe search' turned off) brought up the URL of the site he was looking for. He recognized the high-resolution graphics that seemed to take minutes to load. Timothy waited as patiently as possible to be certain that this was the same site. He then closed his eyes to reconstruct what he saw on the screen back in New York. 

Purple borders, large images, forum postings, avatars, and screen names…. Gasoline - Petro. 

Timothy opened his eyes and began searching threads for the form member named "Gasoline." Thank God, the man was true to form. According to the forum board. He had posted only seven minutes ago. Timothy responded to his post as "Guest." His message was short and it didn't need to be coded. This was a dire emergency.

On my desk is a CD labeled "databoy." Open file "Napoleon" and insert it in the server. Tell it to send messages to your personal webmail. VERY IMPORTANT! The key to removing the hacker is in there.

    * Cooper



"Now what?" Duncan asked. Timothy looked up at his partner who was watching him with an intense interest. 

"Now we wait for Paul Petro to pay attention to his favorite hobby. I hope he sends an…" Timothy was refreshing the screen as he spoke to Duncan. Before he could complete the sentence, the forum board put up a new set of messages, which included: "Acknowledged! Good luck, Coop!"

"Mr. Petro seems to be very predictable," Director Kuryakin observed. "In this case, it has served our purposes well. How long do you think it will take, Mr. Cooper?"

Timothy looked at the Director, swallowing down his anxiety. "If Petro is lucky. Maybe four or five hours… It's hard to tell."

Illya Kuryakin nodded. "Take the lap top with us, Mr. Cooper," he said coolly. "We may need it for further communication."

"Yes, sir."

~*~

 

The mood of the flight to the Netherlands was far heavier than the transatlantic flight had been, if that was possible. Director Kuryakin insisted that both agents do a firearms check in flight to save time. The yellow labeled clips that held sleep darts were replaced with the blue labeled clips that held 9mm hollow point bullets in their Walther P99s. Each agent made sure he had at minimum three spare clips on his person. 

Timothy felt for the hunting knife in its leather sheath strapped to his ankle. People did not suspect someone like Timothy to be carrying a knife. The element of surprise in that area had often been very handy. Just like Millicent had said, and it was true for most people, he didn't look like a spy. 

Duncan, on the other hand, was tall and handsome. If there was a genotype for covert agents, Duncan came closer to it than Timothy. Lord knows, however, Duncan was not the exceptional beauty that The Old Man had been in his youth. If any one had been the stereotypical genotype of a spy, it had been Napoleon Solo. 

 

They landed at Amsterdam Airport Schiphol on a side runway, away from the commercial traffic. No InterPol or UNCLE representative greeted them on the tarmac or at the gate. Director Kuryakin didn't seem to expect anyone to do so. He led the two agents briskly through customs, speaking perfect, if impatient, German, flashing UN Identification and UNCLE clearance cards. They marched past security like juggernauts. The vehement scowl on the Director's face cleared a path through the airport crowds. Timothy and Duncan followed, minions to the Ice Prince. Timothy had no clue where they were going. 

Timothy and Duncan said nothing as Director Kuryakin gave a taxi driver the address to the Grand Amsterdam hotel, which was located in the heart of the red light district. It seemed almost par that the Section One chiefs would chose such a sumptuous hotel in such a questionable location. It certainly wasn't the best side of town, and it certainly wasn't the kind of place one would think top officials in InterPol's covert agency would pick for a meeting locale 

The three men squeezed into the back of the cab grim faced and set for anything. Timothy once more noted the cool demeanor of Director Kuryakin. Calm and dignified, eyes forward and his face set in a haughty frown; he looked more like a dignified old businessman on his way to an important corporate meeting than a man on his way to a possible confrontation with international terrorist. His long-fingered, elegant hands were folded on his lap, sedate, steady and relaxed. 

Timothy was crammed between his partner and the Director, holding the cased notebook computer on his lap. No one spoke. This was not the place for making game plans. The Director would choose the proper time and place. The cab drive drove in calm haste as if he could sense the urgency of his passengers. Certainly Director Kuryakin's stern, disapproving frown helped motivate the cabby to drive efficiently and not dally. Nor did the man try to engage in small talk of any kind. He simply kept his eyes astutely on the road. 

The cab deposited them before the Sofitel Demeure Grand Amsterdam with its majestic Victorian façade. The Director stopped them before they entered.

"The meeting is in a board room," he said quickly. "I do not suspect that the THRUSH cell has infiltrated the entire hotel but we must treat all non-UNCLE personnel as suspects. I will talk. You will follow. Do not assume."

Both Timothy and his partner nodded affirmatives to the Director's instructions. They then headed towards the pillared façade of the entrance. A liveried doorman held the door for them, hardly giving them a glance. The Director strode past like royalty that did not recognize the existence of lower forms of human life. Duncan and Timothy followed in his wake. 

The Director knew where they were going. He didn't stop at the front desk or at the concierge's desk, He just walked with dignified haste across the marbled hall and gilded lobby, heading for the rolling grand staircase that led to the second floor banquet rooms. 

Their footsteps were muffled down the long carpeted hallway to the right of the grand ballroom. Doors to smaller banquet and boardrooms were labeled in Dutch with shiny brass letters. They gleamed sedately in the light of the rows of small crystal chandeliers that illuminated the hall. The Director stopped suddenly before a room labeled _The Grand Duchess's room._ Taking hold of the shiny brass handle, the Director opened one of the double doors.

The room was a sea of white. Men in white dinner jackets moved about among women in white ball gowns that probably could have doubled as wedding dresses with the proper veil and bouquet. The room was glorious in cream and gold trim with beautiful crystal chandeliers. Moving smoothly among the sea of white formal wear were wait-staff in red jackets, the only splash of color in the whole room. It was obvious that once they entered, they would stand out painfully.

Timothy looked to the Director in the hopes that he would have something to contribute to this small dilemma. Instead, the man was looking off to his left; his gaze was intent on a small knot of white clad figures. In the middle of that group was Napoleon Solo. The Old Man was the center of attention on that side of the room and was obviously holding court among the other section chiefs and CEA. At his side stood Madeleine in a white, off the shoulder, satin and chiffon formal that only accented the beauty of her dark eyes and cream complexion. 

Solo was smiling. There was a quality to his smiles that made him look mischievous and boyishly captivating. All eyes in his vicinity were on him, and he held the attention of his attending crowd with effortless charm. Was it any wonder that the Director could home in on his partner so easily? He need only look to the one spot in the room where all eyes were migrating. 

Without a word to Timothy or Duncan, the Director began to make his way through the crowd to Solo. Duncan followed without question and Timothy found himself a few paces behind, as he was shocked into motion by his companions' abandonment of their position. 

So they did stand out in the elegantly dressed crowd. It was strange that all the continental chiefs and the CEAs choose to wear white. There were probably only fifty guests in the room. Of that fifty, only eight were COOs. They represented North America, South America, Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia, Africa, The Middle East, and Southeast Asia/Australia. The others in the room were CEA. Since UNCLE and InterPol reorganized in the early 90s, it was decided that CEA were needed for major regions and not just continents. Madeleine's domain was all of the USA and Canada. The CEA of Mexico and Central America was a man by the name of Julian Hope. Mr. Hope also answered to the Old Man. Fittingly, he stood to Solo's left, a medium-built man was large dark eyes and a thin scar that ran partially along one cheek. 

Timothy pushed past guest in white, on the heels of Duncan and the Director, A few faces in the crowd he did recognize passively. Being only number three of North America, he never really spent much time among the upper echelons of UNCLE. However, it was inevitable, someone was going to call attention to them. They may not know who he and Duncan were, but they certainly knew Director Kuryakin from at least reputation alone. 

A clear, alto voice called out from the crowd, "Hey, Illya!"

The Director paused, turning his head in the direction of the voice. Timothy knew the woman approaching them. He had met her before. She was the UNCLE South American chief, April Dancer. She was a beautiful woman for her age, elegant and graceful with light auburn hair that definitely came from a bottle, but was professionally done. She wore it very well. She approached from their left wearing a graceful white tabard gown that made her look like the virgin queen. Her smile was wide and friendly as she approached an old friend. 

Perhaps it was COO Dancer's shout that called attention to the new comers. Perhaps there had already been some signal or preset time in place. Ms. Dancer never made it to greet her old friend. At that moment, one of the red-coated wait-staff shot Julian Hope, point blank in the chest. After that, pandemonium broke loose. 

"SHOOTER!" shouted Madeleine as she threw herself bodily against Solo, between him and the gunman. 

Many guns were drawn. As Timothy reflected upon it at a later date, he was amazed at just how very well all those UNCLE top brass could conceal weapons in formal wear. However, all of the wait-staff were emerging with guns of their own, including a few automatic weapons. 

It was a melee and Timothy had drawn his own weapon almost from sheer reflex and was searching for cover and targets. He saw Duncan dart forward, heading for the bar, the only high ground in the room. Guests were scattering in a confusion of white satin. The sound of gunfire came from all sides. Timothy started towards Mr. Solo's last position. It was then that he saw the Old Man hauling Madeleine's limp form backwards, her back covered in red. The stain was spreading rapidly down the white satin and chiffon. Timothy went forward to cover them. 

Timothy ducked as a bullet chipped the marble façade of a pillar he was using as marginal cover. He took a shot at a waiter holding a uzi and missed; fleeing crowds obscured his aim. He barely pulled his sight up and out of the way to miss the tottering form of old Kei Hekieli the Eastern Europe chief. The old man had reflexes enough to duck and roll awkwardly out of the line of fire. 

Timothy swiveled his body back against the poll to dive away from the spray of bullets the waiter sent in retaliation. He landed against Director Kuryakin's shoulder. The Director didn't even seem to register Timothy's intrusion on the limited cover. Instead, the man rolled the opposite direction and let off two shots that dropped the uzi-toting waiter efficiently. 

"This way," Kuryakin ordered briskly and Timothy followed without question. It was obvious the crowd was dispersing, but the gunmen were trying to round them up and herd them back into the room. However, their operation was very haphazard and further hampered by the fact that these elegantly dressed men and women were not unarmed and helpless by any means. It was only the sheer numbers of the gunmen that kept them from being overwhelmed. More were arriving by a door on the far left of the room, but they could not stop the egress of some of their quarry by the door to the right and a south-facing balcony. 

Nevertheless, it was apparent to Timothy that they, the Director, Solo, the wounded CEA and himself could not reach those exits without coming into some very serious cross fire. Keeping his head down and gripping the laptop computer to keep it from banging his thigh, Timothy followed the Director around the bar. 

Behind the bar, just beyond a dead waiter that had been obviously rolled out of the way, sat Duncan holding a pistol in each hand. Just behind him was Napoleon Solo huddled protectively around the wounded Madeleine. The CEA was still conscious. Her hand gripped weakly on Solo's lapels. Her face was a mask of pain, and tears leaked from her eyes. Timothy couldn't hear what she was saying but her lips were moving. Solo's head was bent to catch her words, and he mumbled back to her soothingly. The left shoulder of Solo's dinner jacket was stained with blood. Timothy noted with interest that the amount of blood made it improbable that it was all Madeleine's. 

Duncan turned a gun to the new arrivals but only briefly. Recognition was swift, and he turned both weapons back forward in a 'ready' position, watching their situation for red-coated enemies. 

Solo looked up to them as they moved into the small shelter. "Let's get to a more defensible place… or all the way out of here."

Kuryakin nodded. The Director began to carefully scan their surroundings. In seconds, Timothy noted when his sharp eyes locked on something of interest. Off to the left of the bar was a small, unadorned doorway. It was just three steps outside of cover. It could be a way out or it could be a closet, but it was worth a look-see. 

"Mr. Foxx," the Director looked to Duncan, who was closest to the end of the bar that the door was near. Director Kuryakin pointed at the door. "Check that door. We will lay down covering fire."

Duncan nodded and immediately crouched at the ready, facing the edge of the bar's cover. He waited. 

"Now," said the Director. Timothy and he came up over the top of the bar, leveling there guns against the bar's surface. They began a barrage of fire on all red-coated targets. Timothy saw Duncan spring out from the side of the bar with the corner of his eye. Duncan opened the door easily and was inside whatever the doorway led to in seconds. Timothy and the Director ducked back down as the drawn fire of the enemy began to concentrate in their direction. Timothy flinched and ducked as bottles shattered over him from ricochets. 

The door opened again, but only minimally. Timothy could see Duncan through the slice of space in the open doorway as he used the door as a shield. He motioned for them to come. The Director looked over his shoulder to Timothy as if to check that he was on the same page. Solo was already settling Madeleine in his arms to carry. 

"On my count," the Director said. He then mouthed the silent count down. "Three, two, one…."

All three of them came up. Putting Solo and the injured Madeleine ahead of them, Timothy and the Director followed, firing into the still chaotic scene as they went. Duncan threw the door open only wide enough to admit them each single file. They slipped into a clean, well-lit room without any further injury to their party. 

Immediately, Duncan caught Timothy's attention by tapping his shoulder. He looked over pointedly to where a heavy stainless steel prep table sat and Timothy knew just what his partner had in mind. Timothy hurried over to the table's far end. Together, the partners lifted and put the table in front of the door as a barricade. It wouldn't stop the enemy from coming in, but it would slow them up enough for the room's defenders to have a few moments of combat advantage. 

The room was a small kitchen that had a grill, an empty fryer, a row of stove burners under a spotlessly clean stainless steel hood, and two stainless steel sinks. One was obviously for food prep and dish washing while the other was a smaller hand sink. There was a tall stainless steel front cabinet that Timothy guessed was a refrigerator/freezer. Next to the stove was another door. The Director opened it and found the light switch. It was a dry storage room. It was roomy but smaller than the kitchen.

The Old Man, still holding Madeleine in his arms, turned to the Director.

"Put Miss Bishop in there, Napoleon," the Director said as he made eye contact with his partner. 

Solo nodded and headed towards the room with a small grunt that could have been caused by pain, but Timothy was not sure. Kuryakin watched as the Old Man lowered Madeleine to the floor carefully, he then turned back to his two agents. 

"Weapons check, gentlemen," he said curtly. 

Both Timothy and his partner immediately pulled their Walther's clips and checked the remaining rounds. After looking at his Walther, Duncan checked the status of the confiscated gun he had as well. The Director also took a moment to check his own gun. He then turned about, surveying the kitchen. 

"There is no phone," the Director said half to himself in displeasure. He turned back to face Timothy. "We need to check New York's status of fixing the communication's network, and see if we can call in re-enforcements."

Timothy pulled the laptop case from around his neck. "The hotel might have Whyfi," he said. Most modern hotels did, but Timothy was not sure about the Sofitel Demeure Grand Amsterdam. It was worth a try. The Director nodded and Timothy sat the laptop down on a second smaller, rolling prep table. There was no phone line, but there was a power outlet and Timothy decided to plug in to conserve battery power. This could be a long siege. 

"Let me know when you establish contact with New York. Carry on," the Director turned and entered the storage room, closing the door behind him. 

"Damn," Duncan exclaimed softly. He paced quickly before the barricaded door. Timothy watched his partner as he waited for the computer to run through its start up. 

"I know you don't care for traps," Timothy said calmly to his partner. "But you would think, after all this time, you would at least take them with a little more composure."

"I didna kick anything yet, did I?" Duncan exclaimed defensively. 

"Did you see what happened to Madeleine?" Timothy asked as his hands hovered impatiently over the laptops keyboard and touch pad. 

"Took a bullet for the Old Man," Duncan replied simply to his question. "Looks like it hit her right upper back. I couldn't tell for sure. Ya know how it is."

"Yeah," Timothy agreed softly. He knew that in the heat of battle, one couldn't be completely certain what one sees beyond what one needs to see to stay alive. 

The computer finally stopped showing Timothy the tiny animated hourglass. He started immediately to search for a Whyfi connection. The ethernet program paused for a very long time, and Timothy feared that it would find no connection signal. He was pleasantly surprised when windows assigned an IP address. 

"Wow," Timothy murmured in shock. "I'm in."

He brought up the browser window and logged in to AOL. He looked over to Duncan. His partner was exploring the kitchen thoughtfully. Duncan paused, looking up at the stove hood. Timothy wasn't sure what he was examining, but it held his attention for a very long moment. Timothy turned back to the computer and initiated the steps to load and launch AIM. 

In less than two minutes, he had AIM set up and was connecting with Petro through the Manga forum. 

"We gotta move this conversation," Timothy muttered to the computer.

"I don't hear anything…" Duncan said softly.

"I was talking about the computer…," Timothy began but Duncan cut him short with a shush and a raised finger.

"No… Outside," Duncan explained. 

Timothy looked to the door, but no sooner did he look when they both heard a muffled staccato hits of short automatic weapons' fire. 

"Damn!" Duncan exclaimed again. 

"Too much to hope for," Timothy said in agreement. 

"Don't hear sirens."

"I don't know that we will," Timothy said as he turned back to the task of establishing contact.

"Someone has to at least call the police." Duncan shrugged. "Certainly one of the guest has to be slightly miffed with all that noisy gunfire going on."

"I mean, we won't hear the sirens because we are too far in the hotel. I think the conference room's balcony faces a courtyard," Timothy explained, not looking up from his task. He found Petro, who was monitoring the forum in case Timothy returned. Timothy pointed the Section Three operative to an AIM window. With in moments he had Petro's status.

"Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!"

"Don't hold back now, Timmy. Tell me how ya really feel," Duncan replied. 

Timothy ignored the sarcastic comment and continued. "He got the breach closed, but he's still locked out of the satellite relay program."

"No channels A through F then. We'll have to make do," Duncan shrugged.

"I better report to the Ice Prince," Timothy stepped back from the laptop and went to the storeroom door.

~*~

"Hello, gorgeous."

Timothy heard the Old Man's sultry purr as he slowly cracked open the door to the small storage/prep room. He expected to see Solo bent over the prone form of Madeleine. Instead he saw the Old Man propped against one of the legs of a stainless steel shelving unit, his left arm out of his white dinner jacket and a suspender strap lowered. Director Kuryakin was before him, carefully unbuttoning his shirt to examine the wound to his shoulder.

"Shut up, Napasha," the Director replied irritably and the Old Man smiled.

He lifted his right hand up to brush Director Kuryakin's cheek. The tenderness of the action was so apparent that Timothy could not mistake it for anything other than a lover's caress. It surprised Timothy only briefly, but the logic of it helped him put the pieces neatly in place.

"Hold still," the Director growled softly as he lifted a strip of cloth to clean the Old Man's wound. 

"Ah, my partner's TLC at its very best," Napoleon Solo chuckled but caught himself with a small gasp of pain. His shoulder had moved because of his laughter. He grimaced.

"Serves you right, you insufferable, arrogant American." This time Director Kuryakin's voice was not a viscous, low growl but soft, almost loving. The insult was an endearment in disguise. 

"Caro mio, stop dithering over me and see to dear Madeleine."

"I have stopped the bleeding, but she is still going into shock," the Director replied as he looked over to where a silent figure lay, covered with his tweed jacket. Beneath that, Madeleine's white chiffon gown bloused like a fluffy cloud spread across the Formica floor. The Old Man striped out of his jacket with a painful grunt. 

"Here…"

Kuryakin did not question. He took the blood stained dinner jacket and added it to his own on top of Madeleine. The Old Man held the cloth Kuryakin had been using to clean him with to his shoulder.

"Damn!"

"Napoleon, let me see…" Kuryakin came back to Solo. Kneeling beside him. 

"Nothing to see." He sat up straighter. "Bullet went through. Little higher and it would have been a nick. Hurts like hell, but I'll live."

"Ah Napasha, l'ubov' moy, don't whine."

"I get no respect from you," Solo complained softly, and the smile that twinkled in his eyes gave him away. 

Director Kuryakin leaned forward a planted a firm, solid kiss to Solo's lips. This wasn't a manly European kiss. It was a * _kiss*_ kiss and the implications took Timothy's breath away. Sure, he could see the deep affection between Solo and Kuryakin, but to realize that Director Kuryakin was a sexual creature was a little too much to assimilate in one evening. But like a particularly nasty train wreck, the kind he normally avoided watching, Timothy had to watch. He even noted how the Old Man reciprocated. He watched in abject shock as he realized their mouths had opened and tongues were being used in an enthusiastic, wet love-play. 

Damn, the Old Man * _really was*_ good! Timothy watched as his shock turned to fascination. The Old Man had charm and style, but now it was obvious, he had technique too. It was clear to Timothy that, even sitting there wounded, Solo had taken control of the kiss and was now playing his partner like a fine violin. There wasn't any overt dominance. His control was subtle. It was just a potent confidence that helped lead the kiss into a tender direction and away from the demanding, needy place where it had started. Director Kuryakin whimpered briefly and softly as Solo touched his face again. He cupped the Director's face delicately and pushed him back smoothly, breaking the kiss.

"Illyusha…" the Old Man's velvet purr was purely for the Director and Timothy knew it. It was as if no one else in the world mattered to him. Then his next words shocked Timothy shitless and caused the Director to scowl while looking dangerously uncomfortable at the same time.

"Not in front of the kids, sweetheart." The Old Man gestured towards the door that Timothy stood behind. "Come in Mr. Cooper."

In utter shock, Timothy stumbled through the door on a semi-surreal auto-pilot. He stood silent a few feet away from the two men who sat on the floor. Timothy's eyes went briefly to Madeleine, still unconscious and covered in jackets. Her face was very ashen, but her brow was pinched as if the pain had followed her down in unconsciousness. Flecks of blood against white clothing gave testimony to the violence of the day. Timothy looked at his superiors, speechless. His mouth hung ajar for a second, then he shut it sharply as he realized what he must look like. 

"Mr. Cooper?" Director Kuryakin looked Timothy over with his harshest scowl. 

"Um…" Timothy really did feel like a little kid who had interrupted his parents during a tender moment. 

"Yes?" Kuryakin's scowl became more severe, as if that were possible. 

"Message from…. Ahem…. Message from Petro…. Ah…."

"Spit it out, man!" Kuryakin snapped impatiently. 

"Yes… well… They were able to find the backdoor and close it down, but they are having some problems trying to extract a virus from the communications servers."

Solo frowned. "Of course they couldn't extract it." He replied gruffly. "It probably overwrote critical driver files. Extracting them will only make the problem worse."

"Sometimes you scare me when you talk like a computer nerd," Director Kuryakin said soberly to Mr. Solo. Solo turned a charming smile to his partner. 

"Sorry. Having owned a computer company, I picked up a few things. I know you would prefer to watch me eating bomb pops than spouting computer code."

The Director shivered almost imperceptibly. "Not in front of the children," He whispered in quick Russian. 

Timothy felt a smile quirk at the edge of his lips, as the Director seemed to blush briefly. He must have remembered that Timothy was fluent in Russian. Bomb pops? Timothy wondered what sucking on a large red, white and blue popsicle had to do with anything.

Sucking….

Oh!

Suddenly Timothy felt the blush climb to his own cheeks. Fitting that the Old Man would compare fellatio with the Ice Prince to eating a popsicle. 

"Mr. Cooper, bring the laptop in here. Are you still in contact with Petro?" 

Timothy nodded. "Yes, sir. I moved our conversation to an AIM window."

"Good job," said Solo briskly. "Bring it in here." He gestured with his uninjured arm. 

Timothy turned on his heels to obey. 

When Timothy turned back to the kitchen, he saw that Duncan was now attempting to pull himself up on the stovetop to examine the exhaust hood even more closely. Timothy shrugged and went to retrieve the laptop. Petro was standing by. 

Timothy brought the laptop back to the storage room. The Old Man gestured to Timothy to bring it to him. Timothy was happy to note that the wireless connection held even after changing positions. He handed the laptop down to Solo.

Solo sat the laptop on the floor and began a dialog with the waiting Section Three programmer. Even typing one handed, Solo's hand moved swiftly over the keys, the sign of a person comfortable with a computer keyboard. Timothy had heard that the Old Man had run a computer company during a fifteen year hiatus from the Command. He had also heard that he had sold it for an incredible amount of money to Compaq. Up until now, Timothy had thought that the story was one of the many tall-tales in the Napoleon Solo legend. It would seem that this was another story that just might be based instead on fact. 

After a few minutes of instant message conversation, the Old Man spoke once more. "Mr Petro and his team will have to get in and do a snap-shot restore. The system takes snap-shots every twelve hours. The server it is stored on holds two weeks worth of snap-shots. Thanks to your protocol analyzer program, we know just when the initial breach happened. Petro only needs to recover the snap-shot taken twelve hours prior."

"I didn't know there was a server that stored snap-shots," Timothy said meekly. 

"Of course you didn't," the Old Man smiled that knowing smile up at Timothy. "Only a few of us in Section One, InterPol, and the UN Security Council knew that. Well, now you know and Mr. Petro knows. And, in a second here, he will know how to access that secret server." 

Just then there was a metallic clang from the kitchen area, like falling pots and pans. All three men looked to the door, deadly alert. Finally, the Old Man said softly,

"Perhaps you should check on your partner, Mr. Cooper. I can take it from here."

Timothy nodded. Carefully, with his gun drawn at ready, turned his body sideways to use the door as a shield, and slowly opened it. Duncan was still alone. It looked like he was exploring the shelves and had a few large pots down from overhead. Timothy lowered his weapon and stepped all the way into the kitchen. 

Duncan turned to look at him briefly, then turn back to his foraging.

"Problem?" Timothy asked.

"No," Duncan replied succinctly. He then added over his shoulder, "I'm looking for a suitable container for a smoke bomb."

"Smoke bomb?"

"A diversion so someone can get through and do some reconnaissance, find some help."

"Just a container?" Timothy looked skeptically at his partner.

"I'm sure that pantry has some baking soda and vinegar." Duncan pointed to the door behind Timothy. There had been food pantry items in there. Perhaps there was Baking soda and vinegar.

"Either that or sugar, gun powder from some of our bullets, and baking soda, but that would be a bit more tricky of a smoke bomb," Duncan said thoughtfully. "I wonder if there is some food dye in there… I can make them think it is a sleep or nerve gas. I hope we can find icing sugar. Timmy, did ya see any bleach in there?"

"I wasn't paying attention to what was on the shelves." Timothy rolled his eyes at his partner. 

"Well, go back in there and get me some sugar, food dye, bleach, baking soda and a can or two with a screw on metal lid, will ya? Oh and Timmy, give me yer knife."

With a sigh, Timothy knelt down and removed the hunting knife strapped to his ankle. "Why do I always have to be the gopher and the walking tool cabinet?"

"Shut yer pie hole."

"Grr!"

Timothy handed his knife over, handle first, to Duncan then turned and stalked heavily back into the pantry where the Old Man, the Ice Prince and the wounded CEA were waiting. It took Timothy by surprise to find the two old men, once more too close together. They were not necking as before, but one could tell that they were way too comfortable in each other's personal space. Madeleine was still unconscious and breathing with soft gasps of pain. 

Timothy felt like he should excuse himself. He actually opened his mouth to do so when the Old Man spoke cheerfully to him.

"I assume all is well, Mr. Cooper. We didn't hear any trouble."

"No, sir," Timothy stammered off guard. "No trouble. Foxx sent me in here for some supplies."

"He has something in mind?" Solo asked.

"Yes. He wants to make a smoke bomb; use it as a diversion to get someone past."

"Good thinking," Solo said with gruff approval. "Mr. Petro is currently working on getting the communication channels back up. Get what you need."

Timothy nodded in response to the order. He then began to look through the shelves for the ingredients Duncan asked for. He gathered items together and brought them back in two trips, sitting them down on small, rolling prep table. He was pleased with his finds. He not only found bleach in the cleaning supplies, but also icing sugar and dry yellow food dye that would probably make the resulting smoke look like some of the particularly ugly nerve gases. 

Duncan came to stand by his side, looking down at his haul. "Great!"

He picked up one of the jars of olives Timothy had brought back and opened them. After popping a few in his mouth, he poured the rest into the kitchen's large sink. He then handed Timothy his knife back and thrust the can lid his direction.

"Here, nick a little hole in that… right there." He pointed to the spot on the lid. Timothy began to work on the lid as Duncan worked on the rest of the smoke bombs' assembly.

Timothy couldn't help himself any longer, Duncan seemed to know so much about the Old Man and the Ice Prince. Timothy wondered if he knew it all. "I saw the Director kissing Mr. Solo in there," he said softly.

Duncan didn't reply.

"I mean really kissing," Timothy continued, looking up at his partner's face. The man's expression was intense over his current project. "Tongues and everything. Kuryakin called the Old Man 'my beloved.' in Russian."

"Figures," Duncan muttered. 

Timothy looked at his partner inquiringly. "Did you know?"

"No… not really," the Scotsman replied as he tried to eyeball the measurements of sugar to bleach, keeping all the ingredients in separate mixing bowls until the time was right. He had plastic wrap at the ready to make bladders for the dry powder ingredients so they wouldn't mix with the wet ingredients until the canister's hole stopper was pulled and the mixture was shaken. 

"They are lovers," Timothy said in a conversational tone as he continued digging a small hole in the can lid for the stopper. "I wonder how long? I wonder how?"

"They are partners, Timmy. Committed, for better or for worse," Duncan commented easily.

"Does it bug you?" Timothy asked.

"No," his partner answered, not looking up from his work. "Does it bother you?"

Timothy's mouth opened for a quick denial but shut suddenly as he thought about it. It didn't bug him in that visceral homophobic way. Timothy was a man well comfortable with his masculinity. People were people to him. But as he thought about his two superiors, he realized that some people were more people than others. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were superhuman to him. The two were his heroes and his gurus. He aspired to be worthy of their notice. He thought them above petty human needs like love and companionship. The Ice Prince was a legend for his untouchable nature. The Old Man was well known for his smooth charm that kept him in control of every situation.

"It's strange," Timothy began. " I can hardly say that it makes me feel uncomfortable, but it makes me wonder."

"How so?"

"Well…." Timothy was quiet as he pulled his thoughts together. He then struck upon a good example in his mind. "You remember that song, '99' by Toto? Came out when we were kids?"

Duncan frowned at him but nodded in affirmative. It was obvious that his partner didn't know where he was going with this. 

"When I was a kid, I thought that song was written about Maxwell Smart and Agent 99," Timothy continued. "Max was telling his ex-wife how sorry he was that their marriage and their partnership didn't work out because they were spies and they couldn't get around that… the danger, the lies, the lack of stability… all the stuff that comes with the job."

"So?" Duncan looked at him in interest now.

"Well," Timothy continued. "It's kinda like that, you see? Why would you do that to your partner? You are both spies. You both are not the people that you seem to be."

"Are we really, Timmy?" Duncan asked. "Maybe you are more the person you are to your partner than to anyone else. Had ya thought of that, ya git?"

"Shut up, Duncan. I'm serious!"

"I know," Duncan smiled. "An ye know me enough to know that when I call ya that, I'm joking. Y'think anyone else knows me so well?"

Timothy paused in surprise. It was true. No one knew him better than Duncan, even his mother and sister; he knew Duncan better than anyone. He wasn't sure when the slow switch-over had happened. It must have happened over the years and the assignments and the danger and the intrigue. Duncan knew him better than any person on the planet.

"Don't base your ideas about a spy's life on a song supposedly written about a fictional character in a comedy show," Duncan said softly. It was amazing how gentle his voice was, even though his words, under different circumstances would have been hilarious. Timothy quietly continued to work on the lid. 

Duncan bent his head intently over his project now. Timothy decided not to bother him any more. 

~*~

When they had finished, they had three smoke bombs. 

"Ya shake 'em and release the cork in the hole," Duncan said. 

"Now what?" Timothy looked at his partner.

Duncan pointed at a large air duct next to the stove hood. "That pushed air in to the kitchen so the hood will pull the nasty smells out. I bet it connects with the larger conference room."

"A good assumption, Mr. Foxx." The Director walked over to where they stood, looking up at the vent with them. Timothy turned his head too look at Director Kuryakin, the Ice Prince. A slight memory of the old gentleman whimpering softly into Napoleon Solo's kiss crossed his vision for a second and Timothy turned away to hide the sudden blush he felt coming on. 

"Do you think you can get all the way out through there?" the Director asked.

"I doubt it. I'll be a lucky chance," Duncan replied. Better to go to the next room, drop the bombs and use the smoke screen to escape out the doors maybe."

Kuryakin nodded. "Give me the canisters, Mr. Foxx."

Duncan's spine straightened as he recognized what the Director's intentions were. Timothy knew his stubborn partner too well. He knew what was going through his mind. "With all due respect, Dr. Kuryakin, no way. I'm going up. I canna have you at risk. You are far to valuable to the Command, to InterPol, and to the UN."

The Director scowled. "Mr. Foxx, do not attempt to argue with me. You will lose."

"I'm not arguing, Doctor. I'm volunteering for the mission," Duncan replied lifting his chin and standing at perfect attention like the true ex-RAF officer he was. 

The Director scowl deepened but he ceased to argue with Duncan and Timothy stood in amazement with his brave partner. He took on the Ice Prince and won? That took brass balls and suicidal tendencies. No wonder the Director considered that Foxx was good to go on this risky foray into enemy territory. 

"Humph." The Director turned towards the vent again. "Let's get it open."

Fortunately it pried off and was removed with minimal effort. Duncan scrambled up on the stovetop to reach the opening. Timothy handed his partner the two guns he had brought into the room. Duncan re-holstered the Walther and stuck the other gun in his belt. Timothy then handed up the smoke bomb canisters. 

"Careful now." Duncan said as Timothy helped him settle them in a plastic mixing bowl that he would use as a carry-case. 

Then Timothy handed Duncan his knife. "You'll need it," he said softly. Timothy wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he thought he felt Duncan's fingers brush his hands tenderly, like a quick caress, as he took the hunting knife from him. It could have been an accident, but Duncan's fingers lingered just a quarter of a second too long. Before Timothy could look into his partner's eye to see what was going on inside him, the man turned swiftly and scrambled through the dark square in the wall. 

"We had better be prepared," The Director said. Timothy turned his attention away from the empty space through whic his partner had just disappeared. The Director was walking back towards the pantry room. Timothy followed for a few steps. He really wanted to wait next to the vent and listen for sounds of his partner's progress.

"Come along, Mr. Cooper. I assure you, we will know when he makes contact with the enemy." 

Timothy sighed inwardly and forced his feet to go on towards the pantry. Inside, Mr. Solo was sitting still; his left arm was in a thin, improvised sling. The laptop was shut. 

"Mr. Foxx is going out to bring help," the Director announced to his partner. The Old Man nodded. "We should get ready to move," the Director continued. 

The Old Man looked over at Madeleine. "She's getting critical, tovarisch. We gotta hurry."

The Director nodded. "It would be a terrible waste to lose Miss Bishop." 

There was a muffled crash beyond the walls of the kitchen and Timothy turned his attention back to the barricaded door. Rapid gunfire broke out a-new. There were a few screams. 

"I believe that would be our, Mr. Foxx," the Director said placidly.

The barricaded door vibrated violently and yellow smoke leaked through the crack of the frame. 

"Hey, the smoke bombs worked!" Timothy smiled absently. 

The chaos continued and the door vibrated again, harder. Mr. Solo rose as quickly as he could to his feet. 

The door shattered and splintered in it's frame and yellow smoke rolled in from the outer room. For a moment, the chaos that was out there, found its way into the small kitchen sanctuary as their vision was obscured by the acrid, bleach-smelling smoke. It made Timothy's lungs burn and his eyes water. He fanned the air before him and belatedly reached for his gun.

"Hold it!" said a familiar female voice. 

The Yellow smoke was clearing enough for Timothy to see just what had happened. The door had been rammed in; the top half was broken over the heavy prep table, a desperate attempt by the THRUSH terrorists to escape the smoke. Only one terrorist made it through the door, however. What became of the others Timothy was unsure. He just stood in surprise, looking on the face of the young girl who held them all at gun-point.

"Milli!" Timothy frowned.

"Urban Coyote, I presume," Director Kuryakin said as he scrutinized the woman.

Millicent smiled sweetly. "Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, you are correct."

"And Mr. Fitch's killer. Obviously he knew too much."

"Obviously." Millicent replied cheerfully. 

Timothy looked over at the Director curiously. The Director obliged. "The stun-gun, Mr. Cooper. She used it on the unsuspecting Fitch after he let her into his apartment. After he was incapacitated by the stun, she executed him. She made it look like a burglary to throw the police off, and it worked. She would have stunned and killed you too if it had not been for Mr. Foxx's sleep dart. She would have made it look like you and Mr. Layman had killed each other, or were killed by a robber."

"Gustavo didn't trust those morons, but he just didn't have enough programmers to commit on the plan." Millicent supplied.

"So you were the controller," Timothy said grimily. "Probably left for the airport right after I dropped you off at your doorstep."

Millicent shrugged. "Gustavo called me in to supervise the operation after I reported that UNCLE had a man planted in Nebulon."

"And I thought you were a nice girl." Timothy's brow raised in distaste. 

"Oh, Tim!" she sighed sadly. "I am sorry. I really did like you a lot. You did surprise me. I never suspected you to be a spy." She shrugged still keeping her gun leveled at them. "But you are. Unfortunately, Gustavo only wants Section One heads; that means you, Mr. Solo," she said, aiming her words to the Old Man but keeping her eyes on the men whom stood in front of him like a human shield. "That means you and Mr. Kuryakin have to go. I really am sorry, Timmy."

She lifted her gun to aim it more directly at Timothy. There was a sharp crack and Millicent flinched, her eyes blinked hard as a small hole appeared just between her eyebrows and dripped blood. She collapsed in a heap on the floor, a pool of blood forming beneath her head. 

Timothy looked over his shoulder, to his right, in the dark vent square squatted Duncan. 

He lowered his Walther with a satisfied snort. "No one calls my partner Timmy but me, tart."

"Aren't you supposed to be going for help?" Timothy asked acrimoniously.

Duncan shrugged. "Help is here."

Just then, scrambling through the broken door appeared several dark clad people in kevlar vests. The lovely April Dancer, no longer in her tabard formal, led them. 

"Napoleon and Illya! There you two are!" She then called back to her force. "This room is secured. Get medics over here."

"April, dear," the Old Man smiled. "I see you are no longer in that monstrous dress. My CEA is badly wounded. We need to get her out of here."

Ms. Dancer nodded looking sad and serious. "Julian is dead," she began. "So is Lucy and Hunter. Kei is wounded. There are a lot of CEA's down."

Solo frowned as he listened to his colleague's damage report. 

"It could have been a lot worse," she continued. "I think Illya showing up with your men caused the THRUSHies to jump the gun. We weren't drunk enough. I think we should have the champagne tested for drugs." 

Timothy's cell phone chimed. Channel D was back. Timothy answered. 

"Cooper."

"Thank GOD!" Petro shouted into his ear and Timothy had to pull the phone back from his ear to save his hearing.

"IT WORKED! IT WORKED!" Petro was loud enough for the whole room full of agents to hear. 

"I take it channel D is back," the Director said blandly.

"Great," April said and grabbed a cell phone from her pocket. "We had been relying on land lines and short-wave police signals. This will make this mop up a lot easier." 

"Calm down, Petro," Timothy said into his phone. He closed the connection. 

Ms. Dancer was calling in to her people as the medics arrived. Mr. Solo waved them on to the more critically wounded Madeleine. 

Duncan came over to his partner. "Should we help in the clean up?" he asked.

"We better see to our bosses first," Timothy replied. They turned to the Old Man and the Ice Prince to help them through the partially barricaded door. 

 

[Back to UNCLE 2005](http://www.soulsistahslash.com/_private/Batagur1/UNCLE2005.htm)

[Contact SoulSistahSlash](mailto:batagur@soulsistahslash.com)


	5. Epilogue~

~*~

__

Madeleine had gone into emergency surgery upon arrive at the hospital in Amsterdam. She had lost a lot of blood. The bullet had shattered her shoulder blade and nicked her lung. The surgery went well and she was in stable condition and out of ICU before Timothy, his partner and his bosses left for New York.

Gustavo Benuccio cell took a serious blow. Over seventy men and women were rounded up from the clean up of the operation. Another twelve died in the gun battle in various parts of the hotel. A catering service, that had been a THRUSH front was exposed and shut down. However, Benuccio, who was never on the scene of any of his operations, was never found and remained at large. THRUSH would hide him until the heat died down a bit. He would be back. 

Upon returning to New York, Solo gave his two weary agents a well deserved day off, but the next day he expected reports and travel vouchers on his desk by the end of the day. The Old Man called Timothy and Duncan into his office as soon as the last report hit inter-office mail. 

The two men entered together, shoulder to shoulder, walking the length of the conference table to stand before the marble top desk. Solo sat in his chair and Kuryakin stood at his right shoulder. The Old Man's left arm was now in a padded sling. 

"Sit down, gentlemen." The Old Man gestured to the two high-backed chairs. The two agents were seated and Solo seemed to be waiting for them to settle comfortably. That told Timothy that there was a long talk coming.

"Mr. Cooper, you have become privy to something that only the CEA of this region and a few members of Section One were aware of." The Old Man regarded him with a somber expression. "I know you confided in your partner about it. I need to ask you a few questions." He paused.

Timothy nodded.

"Does it disturb you to be aware of Mr. Kuryakin and my relationship?"

"No sir." Timothy answered without hesitation.

"You, Mr. Foxx?"

"Not at all, sir," Duncan replied. 

"Good." The Old Man sat back in his chair with a small sigh. "You are good agents. I'd hate to lose you. Now that we are clear with each other, I must ask you not to be free with this knowledge. It could cause some complications in the UN and the Sixth Committee. You do understand?"

"Yes, sir," both men said together. 

"Good," Napoleon Solo smiled. He was indeed a very charming man. In his youth, legend had it, as Duncan had said before, he had any woman and every woman that he desired. It was odd to imagine that such a famous Casanova would, in his old age, turn to his cantankerous, ice cube of a partner as a life mate. Solo reached up with his right hand and took one of Kuryakin's hands in his own. Timothy knew this was a test and he was looking for the reaction in their eyes. 

The Old Man's smile became easy after a small moment. They must have passed the test. 

"There comes a point when your partner becomes the other half of your soul," Solo said earnestly, looking in both men's eyes, searching. "When you breath out so that he can breath in; when your thoughts are so in sync that you even dream the same nightmares and wet dreams. It really does happen. You have choices: friends or friends with benefits. It's not for everyone." The Old Man smiled his trade mark mischievous smile. 

"You make it sound so loveless," Kuryakin grumbled softly, and Timothy was shocked to hear the L-word come from the Ice Prince's mouth. 

The Old Man turned a glorious smile on to his partner. "But I do love you," he replied. 

"Not in front of the kids," Kuryakin said dryly. 

The Old Man chuckled. "Fine, You gentlemen are dismissed. I apparently need some quality time with my partner." 

The two agents began to stand. 

"Oh, Mr. Cooper?"

Timothy hesitated, looking at Solo inquisitively. 

"As you know we have been deprived of a Number Two since Mr. Fairchild was lost in that affair upstate. Until Madeleine recovers, we will need an acting CEA. You are Number Three. The responsibility falls on you."

"Yes, sir." Timothy replied swallowing his first nervous response to the announcement. 

"Good to hear you take the responsibility so well," Solo smiled. "I am also moving your designation up permanently to Number Two. Go enjoy the rest of your evening. Stop hanging about my office," the Old Man grinned. 

The two agents left the office as they came in, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

~*~

Just outside of the office of Number One, Section One, North America, in the subdued hall lights, Duncan Foxx turned and shook Timothy's hand. 

"Seems congratulations are in order." A small smile curled the man's lips pleasantly. Timothy couldn't remember the last time he saw Duncan with a large smile. 

Timothy sighed as shook his partner's hand. "I just hope Madeleine isn't out for months."

Duncan chuckled softly at him. "You'll do fine, and ye will have me to help."

"Great." Timothy rolled his eyes. The two continued down the hall. 

"It's like the Old Man said. I'm the other half of you." 

"Lord have mercy on my soul."

"Maybe we will even be friends with benefits some day."

Duncan's joke pulled Timothy up short and he stopped, looking his partner over in disbelief. He expected Duncan to laugh at him, maybe poke him on the shoulder and say, "Got ya!"

Instead, the tall Scotsman leaned in, his lips landing firmly on Timothy's. Timothy froze in shock as his partner's tongue ran along his closed mouth. Duncan gave a soft, throaty moan. Then he released Timothy from his kiss.

"Think about it, Timmy."

Duncan Foxx turned on his heels and continued down the hallway, whistling tunelessly. He nearly collided with Paul Petro who was storming up the hall from the elevator. Petro didn't stop and Duncan swiveled momentarily to watch the man march up the hall. 

Petro stopped in front of Timothy with a look of wild-eyed panic. "How could you do this to me!" the man practically wailed. He grabbed Timothy's shoulders and shook him dramatically.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Timothy asked. 

"You!" Petro growled. "You are so damn efficient and successful and you make us all look good in the process! You've ruined me!"

"What?"

"I've been promoted!" Petro keened in anguish. "No more nice, cushy layers of middle management! I report directly to Kuryakin! It's all your fault!"

Timothy's eyes rolled once more as he extracted himself from the melodramatic Section Three operative. 

"I can't win." Timothy sighed and walked down the hall the way his partner had gone.

~*~

__

*Later that evening.*

Dominance in bed was over rated, Napoleon thought. Sometimes, he found being the bottom much more satisfying. Sometimes, but not always. However, tonight was one of those nights. Illya needed it. He had just recently pulled his partner's saggy, old ass out of the fire again. The least Napoleon could do was give the man a piece of it. 

It was truly satisfying being the bottom when he could hold Illya to himself and stroke his head. He loved cooing endearments in his ear as Illya pushed into him, barely in control. He felt tears and sweat wetting his chest as his partner said, "I want you! I want you!" over and over again in Russian, his voice somewhere between a growl and a sob. 

"Da, Illyusha. Come inside me," he whispered soothingly. His fingers combed though gray-gold hair. He cradled his lover's head against his unbandaged shoulder. The bullet wound he had taken a few days earlier been fairly superficial and healing nicely; Napoleon had received far worse in his youth. 

Apparently loosing what little control he had, Illya's hips bucked with abandonment, and Napoleon clenched his teeth and grunted as a few strokes did cause discomfort. He relaxed as best as he could. He held Illya tighter, shushing him. 

"It's going to be all right, caro mio. Hush now. Come inside."

His voice, his hands, his willing, pliant body was at times like an addiction for his partner. He knew that well. He planned it that way. Illya Kuryakin was the only soul in this whole world that Napoleon Solo wanted exclusively and unequivocally. He had had so many others, but none that he wanted to keep like Illya. Keeping meant giving, and Napoleon Solo was a master at giving in various positions. 

His lover was babbling his deepest fears in Russian, allowing that side of himself that he kept so carefully hidden to be heard by the only ears he dared to trust. Napoleon listened, kissing away the pain and anxiety. He wrapped his legs around Illya's waist to hold him closer still. There was something strangely sacred to this for Napoleon. His arousal was markedly solemn and slow. It was not volatile, but it was nebulous. He knew he would only come once Illya came, and it did depend on the intensity of Illya's orgasm. Napoleon knew, on the bottom, the power was, in reality, in his hands. 

"Come on, sweetheart," Napoleon whispered, urging him tenderly. "Come inside me."

"Da!" Illya cried out, then seized up as his orgasm ripped violently through him, shaking him from head to toe. A strangled groan escaped him and he tried to call his lover's name. The sound was choked off as the seizure of another wave of pleasure pushed through him, making his teeth chatter. 

Napoleon's orgasm, brought about mostly by his own hand, was enhanced by the gratification of Illya's release. It was incredibly satisfying. It was completion at its most basic and direct, and he felt very good all over.

Illya collapsed on top of him with a final sob. Napoleon unlocked his legs from around him. The Russian sighed hugely, then carefully rolled off. 

After a moment to catch his breath, Illya spoke. "Friend with benefits?"

"It's an expression."

"I don't care for it," Illya said bluntly and Napoleon chuckled. 

Napoleon rolled towards his partner, lifting a hand to stroke his cheek. "We are much more than friends with benefits," he soothed. 

"Really, Napoleon," Illya exclaimed with exasperation and disapproval. Napoleon chuckled again. 

"Silly, stubborn Russian," he whispered lovingly, kissing the side of Illya's face tenderly. Illya turned to him and they shared a few sweet, soft afterglow kisses. 

"What do you think of Foxx and Cooper?" his partner asked after a final peck against his lips. 

Napoleon smiled. "I think they are good agents. They have a lot of potential. They'll do okay if they don't get themselves killed."

"Not an easy task in this line of work," Illya commented. 

Napoleon nodded in agreement. "They are a good team. Good agent pairs keep each other alive and get the job done."

"Naturally," Illya agreed.

"As for what happens later to the relationship, we'll have to wait and see."

"Do you think? Friends with benefits?"

Napoleon chuckled again. "Who knows, and I won't lay odds on it. I wouldn't care to be wrong about those two. I have faith in them."

End

 


End file.
